


twice shy

by vicariously kingly (pelted)



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Alternate Universe - Parallel Universes, D/s and kinky stuff in ch 2, F/M, Full spoilers, M/M, Multi, Witchcraft and Other Pagan Rituals - Fun for the Family, also so many feelings my god too many to fit in one lonely cowboy, hurt/comfort mmm yeah, ok really but where was my demon summoning ritual rockstar, stop being a tease rockstar, where was my cowboys vs warlocks vs aliens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-07 01:52:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16844773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelted/pseuds/vicariously%20kingly
Summary: “Think I drank something I shouldn’t’ve,” Arthur confessed. “And now I’m in some kinda waking nightmare.”“What are you talking about?”To his surprise, Dutch’s voice softened, its edges demanding less and coaxing more. Like he was trying to understand. Honestly trying. For the first time since who-remembered-when.It was too much. There had to be an out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING:** full spoilers for the game! also, some creative use of the low honor vs high honor mechanics, which means one of these Arthurs may not be the one you recognize. ;D
> 
> a minor spoiler and **context for this fic** : up in the Grizzlies there's a "witch's cauldron" watched over by a raven as a point of interest. Arthur, bless his fool heart, happily drinks from it. 
> 
> I, a big fan of everything strange, was very disappointed by the lack of consequences for such a fantastically dumb move. and so, with the help of my good friend & muse Jackaloping, I came up with this alternate what-if, which involves Arthur swapping bodies with himself from a parallel dimension and ... well, you'll see. hope you enjoy!!

Just as Javier saddled up to look for their three week hence missing man, Arthur Morgan showed up.

He rode into camp looking like the devil himself had given chase. He tossed his horse’s reigns to a post without checking if they made it; where she was left, his horse’s side heaved with heavy breath, white froth gathering at the corners of her mouth. 

Tilly, who had the misfortune of being the first person he passed, remarked that it was about time he showed up, and that they’d started wondering if they’d need to dig him out of a six-foot-deep hole.

As Arthur looked at her with wild eyes, she’d muttered, “You know I didn’t mean nothing by that.” Then, “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He’d leaned in close, his eyes darting around furtively. His voice dropped to a whisper just loud enough for them. She stood her ground as best she could and tried not to lean away from him and his stench from weeks on the road, but ultimately failed at least the latter part.

“When’d we move camp?” He’d asked, as if he hadn’t helped them set up when they had.

“Four months ago?”

He rubbed a hand over his face, again looking around as if searching for spies. 

While he was so distracted, she shot a _help me!_ look over his shoulder to Karen -- who, thankfully, caught it.

“Bit close to Blackwater, isn’t it.”

“I suppose.” He caught her eyes. Wanting to check on Karen’s progress toward them but not wanting to incite anything by looking away, Tilly cleared her throat and didn’t dare even blink. Arthur wasn’t as big and mean as he liked to think himself, but the look he had wasn’t the usual Arthur look. It reminded her more of a wounded dog seconds before it decided to bite the hand that long fed it. “Closer to Strawberry, though.”

His lips gained a sardonic little twist. He wasn’t blinking, neither.

“Micah didn’t protest?”

“Who?”

The twist dropped. Flattened out.

“The question we wish we could ask, isn’t it?” She had no idea what he meant, but he didn’t apparently feel like elaborating. “Figure he don’t have too many fond memories of quaint, little Strawberry. Can’t imagine he didn’t whine about the spot, good as it is-- if it weren’t so close to Blackwater, I mean.”

While not usually one to hold back her opinions- and she had more than a few kick-started by such an arrival-, Tilly wasn’t too sure what to do with that rambling nonsense. She stayed quiet.

Arthur stared at her as she stared at him. His expression finally started to match hers in confusion, but just as he opened his mouth to clarify, Karen cut in.

“Arthur!”

He looked over his shoulder before turning all the way around to face her. She planted her hands on her hips, her head cast back with faux haughty, practiced disdain.

Over his shoulder, Tilly mouthed a _thank you._

“Gone so long, and you don’t even come ‘round to say hello?”

“I,” he said, then stopped. His hunched shoulders rose a little higher, which was impressive, as he already looked like a scared turtle impersonating a man.

It was peculiar. Very, very peculiar. Occasionally ornery and nasty as Arthur Morgan got, he never looked frightened. Tilly didn’t like it a bit.

In turn, Karen’s disdain crumpled slowly into confusion. Though heartened to see Tilly wasn’t the only one baffled by Arthur’s behavior, she found herself more interested in what had caught Arthur’s attention. She craned her neck to look over his shoulder and find what had caught him so off-guard, but try as she might, she couldn’t figure it out. He was staring at the camp’s fire. A few folk were gathered around it, sure, but they weren’t doing anything odder than having their supper fresh from the pot.

“You alright?” Karen ventured, unintentionally echoing Tilly. 

Slowly, he dragged his eyes away from the fire and to her. “I’m fine.”

“What kept you away so long?”

His eyes dropped to the ground. 

All at once, it was like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. They fidgeted at his sides, his fingers rubbing together; then in front of him; then, finally, they ruffled through his satchel until they alighted upon what they really wanted, and out he pulled a carton of smokes and a matchbook. He shook a smoke out, lit it, and put it to his mouth for a long pull.

His hands shook. 

Tilly and Karen exchanged a look over his bowed head. Unfortunately, though communicate silently they did through facial expressions and small hand-gestures, neither had any explanation to offer the other.

As for Arthur, the routine didn’t seem to help him any. By the exhale, his face paled to match the yellow-grey of the smoke.

“I’m fine,” he repeated around his cigarette, though it was clearly a lie. “I’m gonna go… say hello.”

“... Sure.”

“Okay, then.”

Karen sidestepped to Tilly’s side. Arthur ghosted by her to the campfire.

Tilly half-expected him to faint on his way there, but miracle of miracles, he didn’t.

Naturally curious as they were, they watched him go, then hastened to the girls’ tent. It was cleverly set up behind a storage wagon, within perfect earshot and (if they crouched) sight-line of the camp’s main fire.

They watched as Arthur greeted Pearson and Bill, but failed to even acknowledge Lenny. When Sean swaggered over to cajol Lenny into a poker game and remarked to Arthur about how _it was about time he showed up_ and _why, you’re looking fresher than roadkill!_ , they saw how Arthur gave him nothing more than a cursory glance-over before re-focusing on the fire and his hastily depleted cigarette.

Mary-Beth was already at the girls’ tent, her nose in a book. She looked up as they settled down on either side of her. Quietly, they filled her in on what they’d heard to add to the peculiarity of his actions by the fire: Arthur rambling about a Micah figure, his overt concern about being near Blackwater.

“He forget where camp is?” Karen rolled her eyes, clicking her tongue. Mary-Beth hid a smile behind her book. “Maybe we should’ve checked his head for lumps.”

Tilly agreed. 

“You don’t think he was followed, do you?”

“Arthur Morgan can be an ass, but he’s better than that.”

“And if he caused trouble in Blackwater, we would’ve heard about it.”

They all agreed on that.

At that moment, Jenny wandered from the laundry to their tentside. Abigail was on her heels, though she looked substantially more annoyed than Jenny. 

Jenny noted, “I can’t believe he’s allowed back after so long without any trouble.”

Abigail snorted. “I can. Arthur Morgan, ever the favorite.”

Tilly couldn’t fault her the dislike. Certainly, Jack cried less when Arthur wasn’t around (and John threw less punches, deserved though they were and pleased as Abigail was or wasn’t over him standing up for her and Jack). Even so, the fire of Abigail’s anger banked quickly. Thorn in the side he might’ve been, there was no denying from any of them that he was a loyal and steadfast member of their makeshift extended family.

Which made his looking like he’d just escaped the noose even stranger.

“You think he knows something we don’t?” Mary-Beth mused.

“Oh, absolutely,” replied Abigail. “Him acting so strange? There’s gotta be something.”

Tilly shrugged, a little less concerned on that front. “If there’s anything worth knowing, Dutch’ll get it out of him.”

“Arthur’s no good at secrets. If there’s anything worth knowing, we’ll know by the morn.”

Unfortunately, they wouldn’t be getting it out of the Arthur hanging around the fire. Before he could finish what appeared to be his second cigarette, Dutch called him over to his tent. To discuss the next heist, Tilly guessed; Abigail was right in that Arthur was rarely a subject of discipline. Moreover, their newest gang member - a Charles Smith - and Davey were already over by Dutch.

Immediately, Arthur left the fire and headed over. As he went, Tilly couldn’t help but notice he didn’t even return Hosea’s greeting as they passed.

Tilly pursed her lips tight, her hands balling in her lap.

“Like I said.” The other girls nodded, all eyes on the strange interaction. “Peculiar. Very peculiar.”

. . .

Dutch had a plan.

It involved a stagecoach from Blackwater stuffed with bonds. It involved Charles and him being the main guns, with Davey keeping a look-out. Davey had confirmed the stagecoach’s time of arrival. They’d need to set up on the overlook south of Strawberry by the morn. Dutch clapped Davey on the shoulder with pride over him getting such great information.

Davey, Davey, Davey.

“No ferry?” Arthur asked Dutch, a bubbling laugh on the tip of his tongue. 

It pressed against his throat, which was scratchy not from a cough but from smoke. Despite the cloud he’d sucked in by the fire, his every breath felt clearer than it had in weeks, if not months.

That made the laugh caught in his chest beg harder to get out, but he did his best to swallow it down and keep up a poker face. Fortunately, he had a fantastic poker face.

“No ferry,” Dutch assured with an indulgent smile. His eyes looked clear as Arthur’s lungs. The bit of haze - the bit of greed - was a natural addition, and nothing so poisonous as illness.

Dutch then dismissed Charles-- who looked at Arthur as one might a friendly stranger- and Davey, and told Arthur he needed to discuss some finer details of the plan with him. Dutch took him for a walk by the quiet, peaceful creek that bordered their camp. 

When they were out of sight and anything less than intentional earshot, Dutch turned, put a vice around his bicep, and asked, “What’s gotten into you, Arthur?”

The tone of voice - the undercurrent of worry, the genuine concern, how it stayed stone-cold calm and collected - meant Arthur was either dying or about to gain a black eye. The bit in him that had been fourteen and unused to being told with words what he’d done wrong expected a back-hand, Dutch’s fancy rings included. The rest of him wanted desperately to laugh. If he started, though, he suspected he wouldn’t stop.

Since it couldn’t get out that way, it manifested in other ways.

Noteably: how he opened his mouth, and foolish words came tumbling out.

“Think I drank something I shouldn’t’ve,” he confessed. “And now I’m in some kinda waking nightmare.”

“What are you talking about, Arthur?”

To his rapidly depleting surprise, Dutch’s voice softened, its edges demanding less and coaxing more. Like he was trying to understand. Honestly trying. For the first time since who-remembered-when. 

It was too much.

The laugh in him turned to fire, burning and twisting in his gut something painful and raw.

“You see, Dutch,” Arthur informed him while the laugh bubbled up and spilled over, escaping him in a chuckle that wouldn’t leave, “I found this strange lean-to in the woods up north. Had a pot of this strange liquid in it, unattended except for this big, ugly, red-eyed raven. Meant to ask if it’d made the stew, but it clearly wasn’t the sharing sort.”

Dutch looked at him as if he’d gone mad.

 _Dutch_. Looked at _him._ As if _he’d_ lost it.

Well, Arthur thought-- maybe I have. Maybe I finally, rightfully have. 

“Took a cupful.” He ducked in close, dropping his voice to a conspiratory whisper. “Stuff tasted like tar and knocked me out cold. Woke up with a raging headache a ways away. Went to camp in-- in Beaver Hollow, only to find camp gone. Looked all around for you and the others. Heard word, found you and-- and- Mac’s doing patrol?”

“Son,” Dutch said, all calm and careful, which made Arthur sure he was either about to be told he was actually dying ( _hah!_ from what now?) and that he deserved it, “I need you to take a few breaths. Settle yourself. And tell me what exactly you took before you rode into camp today.”

“Weren’t today. Were, mm, some three weeks ago.” The chuckle turned into a laugh -- one sharp, broken guffaw, before it died in a rush. The hollowed-out, burnt-out feeling sobered him up right quick. It had grown from seeing Mac on patrol and Davey at a plan-meeting, from Lenny and Sean joking as always, from a ghost shaped like Hosea walking around. From Tilly, acting like she had no idea who a jackass called Micah Bell might be. “Witch’s brew, I reckon.”

Dutch raised an eyebrow.

Arthur bit back a sigh. Even if this were a nightmare, calling Dutch slow was _never_ a good idea. So, he repeated to clarify, ever helpful: “That’s what I drank. Witch’s brew.” 

His other eyebrow joined the first in attempting to reach his hairline.

After a drawn-out staring contest, Dutch chuckled, too. Let go of Arthur’s arm. Clapped his hands together, shaking his head as he half-turned away.

“Shit, Arthur. If you didn’t want to go on the job, just say so.”

Arthur frowned, somehow stung despite knowing full well he had no right to be. 

“That’s not it.”

“Witch’s brew? Really?” Dutch scoffed, his hands raising with palms out, his whole countenance on the edge of _mocking._ “When you’re ready to tell me what exactly you got up to out there, let me know. ‘Til then, I want you getting rest. John’ll take your place while you do.”

John.

The last time John went on a job for Dutch--

John hadn’t walked away. Rather, he’d been dragged away in chains.

The last time Dutch got it in his head Arthur wasn’t cut out for a job-- when he said he needed to _go and rest_ \- the implication had been that Arthur would never be invited back for the next. 

“I can do the job,” Arthur said, on reflex, his exhausted worry spurring him on despite his skull feeling like it was stuffed with cotton. “I’m fine.”

“You just said you’re in some waking nightmare,” Dutch said, too light to be safe. “That don’t sound fine to me.”

Except, when Arthur looked at him-- really looked at him, again, for the second time in the last five minutes, which had to be a record in the last few months-, there wasn’t any viciousness behind it. The mockery masked teasing and, below that, concern. Real emotions, focused on somebody other than himself. Focused on a hurting family member. Like the old Dutch would. 

Arthur’d thought he’d known Dutch before, though. That hadn’t worked out so well for him or anybody else.

“Sit this one out,” Dutch demanded of him, which was not so mighty a demand except that Arthur heard what else could’ve been meant, “there’ll be more.”

Would there?

Did Arthur believe that?

Did Arthur believe any of this?

He’d cleared out Beaver Hollow of the MurFree brood himself, drunk on the clarity in his lungs and the premature hatred that he’d find familiar faces decapitated and spiked on pikes in the back of the cave. When he hadn’t-- and when he’d somehow survived clearing the cave even without Charles backing him up and only a bit worse for wear-, there had been relief tempered by cluelessness over figuring out where to go next. Half-convinced he’d gained short term amnesia from the disgusting potion he’d drank, he’d checked his journal. But that had been no help, as he’d only found drawings of mountainous landscapes he didn’t recognize. The art style he knew, as it was his own, full of the little imperfections he needed to work on and the telltale sloppiness of his shading. So the drawings must’ve been done by his hand, except he had no memory of sketching such things. 

In any case, that hadn’t mattered as much as the fact he was even more lost than he had been on his return from Gaurma.

(Later it turned out his journal had been right: they’d moved northwest of Strawberry, tucked away into the wilderness that yet permeated the area.)

Yet, if it hadn’t been for an off-hand mention by a raccoon-capped man in Valentine’s tavern about a pair fitting John and Bill’s descriptions causing a ruckus a week prior with some O’Driscolls before fleeing west, he wouldn’t have even checked Strawberry.

More than the three weeks spent chasing his own tail, he’d just sat at the same campfire as Lenny. He’d walked past Hosea. He’d schemed with Davey.

Hysteria had been looking to take a bite of him through all that. Now, it was gone, and so too went his energy. 

No cough in his throat. No blood spat into his hands. No ache in his chest.

No madness in Dutch’s eyes. No Micah. No memories of a Blackwater job gone terribly wrong.

He felt like sitting down right then and there and giving up, but knew he couldn’t. Nightmare, reality, witch’s curse, _God’s_ curse for a life poorly lived-- it didn’t really matter. He’d been on his way back from the Wapiti Reservation for the culmination of Dutch’s insane plan to rob an army train. If he was living some sort of drugged haze, he’d surely missed his window to help those that had the legs to run to do so. On the slim chance he wasn’t and that he _could_ , he needed to get back. 

He needed to wake up. Needed to figure out how to wake up.

So he said, “Sure,” and kept his eyes down, away from this miraculously and mercilessly perfect copy of a Dutch long gone.

_If he’d ever been there in the first place._

“Good man,” Dutch said, clapping him on the shoulder like he had Davey. “You sleep off this ‘witch’s brew,’ and then we’ll talk.”

Amused. Non-believing. Blatantly so.

Arthur just wished he’d been lying about downing a cupful. If there was anything he was sure of, he was positive he’d drank the nasty concoction, fool that he was.

. . .

Now if only he could figure out if he was trapped in a hell or a heaven.

. . .

Lenny was no gossip, but he did have the opinion that it was good to stay informed of one’s company.

“You’re a fucking nosy nag,” Sean teased, elbowing him in the side as he said as much to Tilly, who had been telling him about the weirdness she’d seen Arthur getting up to, “just embrace it!”

“Would you keep your voice down?” Tilly growled at Sean. Any bite she might’ve had disappeared under her smug smile at knowing something they didn’t. “Unless you’d like to be the one to tell the whole camp ‘bout Arthur Morgan dying.”

“He’s dying?” Sean asked, eyes wide. Lenny wasn’t sure if he was still joking around or not.

“Must be. Only reason he’d be acting as nice as he is.”

“Nice? That hard ass? Don’t seem so nice to me.”

“Him getting you to pull your weight isn’t being mean, Sean.”

“Miss Jackson, you wound me. I always pull my weight, eventually.”

She rolled her eyes and Lenny gave a disbelieving, highly amused huh— which just made Sean grin, of course.

“You think you’re so charming.” Tilly shook her head. Then, oddly, sobered up something fierce. “I’m serious, though. Weren’t Arthur offering to take you out hunting, Lenny? And he wanted that Charles to go along too.”

“Charles is good at hunting.” Lenny tucked his thumbs into his pockets, a little embarrassed about it all. “And I do need practice with my rifle.”

“Sure. But Arthur’s never gone with anybody else lest Dutch orders him to. He’d certainly not stoop to training lowly folk like us. No offense.”

“No, it’s true,” Sean cut in. “Bastard’s always been a grouchy old lone wolf type. More prone to bite than bark. What’s changed?”

“I saw him playing with Jack the other day.” Tilly’s eyebrows went up, which made Lenny shrug to communicate that, yeah, it was pretty weird. “Convinced the kid to go skip rocks with him by the lake. Until Abigail found out, anyway. She flayed him over taking the kid away from camp without telling her. Her yelling’s still ringing in my ears.”

“We can all see the lake from here, though. Not like he was in no danger.”

“Arthur, just wanting to be nice to Jack? I’d be suspicious too. Hell, I’m suspicious right now, and I’m not even his mother.”

“So what’s the deal? Why’s he being so strange?” 

Silence. 

Lenny looked between the two. Both looked back, unable to provide any answers. 

“Mary-Beth heard from Miss Grimshaw that Dutch took him off outside work,” Tilly finally ventured. “For the time being, anyway.”

“Cabin fever, then. Plain restlessness.” Sean scratched the underside of his chin. His interest in the topic was clearly, swiftly waning.

Lenny couldn’t say the same. Arthur’d asked him about a book he was reading under a tree that very morning, had stuck around to listen to the answer, and then genuinely seemed interested in Lenny’s opinion of whether it was good or not (it had been). He’d been so shocked at the interest he’d offered to lend Arthur the book once he was done. 

That had made Arthur suddenly clam up and stutter out a, “well, maybe, I don’t know,” and make a swift exit. Lenny had stared after him, confused at if he’d said something odd, decided it hadn’t been him, and gone back to the book. All in all, it’d been a strange but not entirely unpleasant exchange, and Lenny needed to figure out what had sparked it. 

So he pressed. “But why’d he get taken off outside work in the first place?”

Tilly shook her head. Sean scratched more at his chin, his boredom growing more evident in the enthused half-lidded angle of his eyes.

The pause stretched and stretched. 

“Pair of grannies, the both of you. Let’s stop pussyfooting and just ask,” Sean finally declared, and before either could adequately protest- confrontation was never part of the news-sharing hour!-, turned on a heel toward Arthur’s wagon and marched on in.

Arthur, however, wasn’t at his wagon. 

“Bit of a let down,” Lenny muttered, to which Sean grumbled in displeasure, looking all about camp until his eyes alighted on his target.

With a whoop, off again he went, Lenny hot on his heels. Tilly, because she was smart, lingered farther away for better eavesdropping. 

Sean stopped in front of John’s tent, within which a subdued Abigail sat and outside of which a contrite Arthur stood. 

Arthur did a double take as they approached, paling somewhat as Sean gave them an overly cheery greeting and jaunty tip of his hat. 

“Definitely a hell,” Lenny swore he heard Arthur mutter, though then the man’s eyes moved to him and he squinted, as if he weren’t entirely sure what he said was true.

“That’s rude of you,” Sean said, cheeriness not deterred, “and I’m gonna pretend you was looking elsewhere when you said it. Now, Arthur Morgan, we got a query for you.”

Wariness crossed his face, then made its home along the tightness of his mouth. “Oh, yeah? And what’s that?”

“Why’re you acting so peculiar?”

He froze. 

Then he unfroze, in such a way as to be incredibly obvious and not at all inconspicuous. 

“Don’t know what you mean,” he muttered, tipping his head down to hide his eyes behind his hat.

“Arthur, dumb only suits you _most_ of the time. You know what we damn well mean. You being so friendly all a sudden! It’s almost shameful.”

“As I was telling you,” Abigail said, though she sounded more tired than bewildered, “we all done noticed.”

“The boy said he was bored and that he wanted to see the fishes,” Arthur grumbled, a bit more prickly and thus a bit more normal, “and I’m not seeing how it were so strange for me to talk with him that all of you feel a right to jump down my throat ‘bout it.”

“That’s not it at all,” Lenny assured, though it was at least a part of it.

Sean folded his arms over his chest, sensing he was getting a rise and living for it. “That’s just the tip of the matter, bud. Heard you was taken off outside jobs for the time being. That true?”

“It’s none of your business my comings and goings, McGuire.” Arthur straightened himself up and puffed his chest out like he was fixing to march up on one of Strauss’ poor debtors, his voice a growl. “There’s nothing behind any of what I’m doing. You fellers are seeing things that ain’t there.”

“Arthur, now you hold on and settle down.” Abigail stood, her tiredness burning away quick under a spot of fire over the matter. “We’re just wondering--”

He interrupted her by throwing his hands up and turning away, clearly dismissing them all.

“I’m fine! You worry about your own damn selves.” He took three stomping steps away, then stopped, swung around-- lifted a hand, finger pointed accusingly at Lenny and then Sean, mouth working without any words make it out-- then, dropped the hand and made an _aw, fuck it_ noise. “And you two! Watch your heads whenever you ride out of camp. Especially you, McGuire. It’s gotta be breezy enough in that empty skull without you adding any more windows.

“And, uh-- uh- Abigail. Excuse me,” he muttered to the lady, giving her a shy glance as he turned away and continued his stomping away.

Abigail shook her head after him, sitting down again on John’s bed.

“He is acting strange,” she muttered, more to herself than her remaining company.

Lenny stared at the space Arthur left, even more confused than he had been before.

He looked to Sean for clarity, and predictably found none.

Bemused, he asked, “Did he just threaten us?”

“Reckon not.” Sean huffed a laugh, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops and looking off to the side to spit. “Reckon, maybe so.”

“He did not,” Abigail chided, though she didn’t sound like she’d swear on oath about it. “Think he was trying to warn you boys to be careful.”

“Huh.”

“Funny way of saying such.”

She snorted. “One thing hasn’t changed none. He’s still awful with words.”

“That’s for sure.”

“What was he doing ‘round here, anyway?” 

“Wanted to apologize for upsetting me over Jack. Or so was the understanding I got from our exchange.” She rolled her eyes and didn’t work too hard to bite off her sigh. “‘Course, no van der Linde boy has ‘sorry’ in their vocabulary, so they have to put in a lot of work to get the sentiment across.”

“Pride’s a plague of all men, Ms. Roberts,” Sean cheerily informed her. “Or so’s I heard it.”

She eyeballed him, clearly as unimpressed with him as she was with Arthur’s recent change in heart.

Before she could lay into him or, more likely, tell them both to get on their way, the stagecoach crew came back from their job. Davey’s horse had a canvas sack and all three were grinning like hillbillies with buckets full of crawfish, and so the camp’s spirit raised with them and their job well done. Pearson promised to cook up the best bits of the deer Charles had brought in the night before while Uncle awoke from his drunken coma and started a merry tune-- and so they all celebrated like that, gathered around the fire and enjoying a sizable reaping from a surprisingly underguarded coach.

All except Arthur Morgan, who kept to the sidelines while nursing a single beer. Lenny noticed but didn’t comment, as the man was known to get into foul moods just before he took off for a week of wandering and who-knew-what-- and also because he suspectly, probably rightly, that he and Sean were a large part of the temper over tonight.

If Lenny also noticed Arthur’s eyes lingering on him and Sean too long to be comfortable, well, he just put his back to the man and the matter out of his mind. He wouldn’t have the man ruining the night. 

Everybody else paid Arthur the same space and respect throughout the evening. Until, that was, John - red-faced and three sheets to the wind - stood up by the fire and called out, “Oi! Arthur! Feller’s looking for you in Strawberry.”

The laughter at the campfire dwindled, but didn’t die. Lenny certainly leaned in to listen in, and he saw he was far from the only one. Tilly and Abigail did the same, as well as Hosea and Charles.

Arthur had put himself by a tree on the very edge of the fire’s warm light. He looked more startled by all of them turning their heads toward him than John’s words, and thus failed to respond before John got it in his head that he was being ignored.

“Arthur. Hey. Did you hear me?”

“The whole countryside heard you, Marston.” Arthur gruffed, slowly making his way closer to their little group. “What’s this about a man looking for me?”

“Crossed paths with him at the general store. He was asking ‘round for a Tacitus Kilgore. Said he’d come all the way from Annesburg.” 

“Quite a trip,” Hosea noted. 

Arthur waited, but John didn’t elaborate. A mite ticked about having to drag the information out, he prompted, “Alright?”

“Funniest thing. He said he had some big reward for you, on account of you cleaning out some local trouble.”

Without missing a beat, Arthur dismissed him, shaking his head. “Must’ve gotten the wrong name.”

“Sure! ‘Cause there’s a lot of Tacitus Kilgores out there,” Karen laughed. “Easy name to mistake.”

“You cleaned out trouble up in Annesburg?” Hosea asked.

“Did no such thing.” Except even as he spoke, he wouldn’t look Hosea in the eye. Instead, he busied himself with frowning at John, as if willing the man to admit he was making it up. “Or if I did, it was on account of me causing the trouble, and then getting out of it.”

“That does sound more like us.”

But John wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily. Taking steps around the fire to reach Arthur’s side, “He said you cleared out some backwoods brood. The McRees? McFreeds?”

“Murfrees,” Arthur muttered, ducking his head again to hide his eyes behind his hat brim.

“So you did cause trouble with them!”

“The Murfrees are worse than _trouble_ ,” Charles said. Him suddenly speaking by his elbow nearly made Lenny jump. “You were up by Beaver Hollow?”

“I’d gotten a little turned around, is all.” Arthur scratched at the side of his neck, clearly growing more uncomfortable under all the attention. “Looking for camp. They was… making a ruckus. Bothering folk. Bothered me. Didn’t care for it.”

“So you ingratiated yourself?” Hosea whistled, low and short, before giving Arthur a big grin. “And made a good name for yourself while you were at it. Good show, Arthur. How big’s the reward?”

John, possibly despite himself, also sounded somewhat impressed. “He rode all the way down here from Annesburg to make sure it weren’t lost on the way, so it must be pretty big. What’d you do to the bastards?”

Arthur shrugged, finally looking up -- and sideways, over to John. “They deserved every bit of what they got.”

“Sure. But what’d you do?”

“Let’s just say,” Arthur sniffed, the edge of his mouth quirking up, “they won’t be causing as much trouble with only a handful of ‘em left walking around.”

Those at the fire toasted to the accomplishment, though only Charles seemed to understand what exactly Arthur rooting such folk out of the area meant. Their toasts went more for the reward that Arthur simply _had to_ \- according to Karen, backed up by everyone else - collect on the morn. He assured them that he would, and with a little, rare smile, retreated to his quieter spot outside of the limelight, telling them all he needed another beer if they were going to be staying up all night.

John tailed him away from the fire, and Lenny caught a teasing, “Can’t believe you got so lost you ended up in Roanoke Valley. You sure you didn’t hit your head?” as they went. 

Arthur didn’t immediately reply with something scathing, as had been his wont since John rode back in after a year missing. Though Lenny didn’t catch the words, the murmur sounded downright warm.

“Something’s changed in that boy,” Hosea said. Him suddenly speaking _did_ make Lenny jump a little, especially as he realized Hosea was speaking to _him._ The old man had a quiet, self-satisfied smile on his face; once Lenny looked his way, he motioned with his beer toward Arthur’s retreating back. “Maybe it was whatever business happened between him and those Murfrees. Maybe it was him realizing we ain’t always gonna be around. Whatever it is, don’t think too much about it.”

Lenny nodded. Paused. Then said, skeptical despite himself: “Leave the gift horse’s mouth unchecked, huh?”

Hosea shrugged, turning back to the fire and lifting the bottle to his lips. “So long as it’s not biting, what’s the trouble?” 

“You’re too lax with those boys,” Miss Grimshaw groused as she passed by, having apparently eavesdropped for some of the exchange-- which surprised Lenny not at all-, “and that’s why they can be so unpredictable.”

“Unruly, you mean,” Karen added, and snickered to herself over her drink. “They can be a pair of right idiots.”

“I like to think of it as them being _full of life,_ ” Hosea said, diplomatic as a fox.

“Despite all odds, they’re still kicking.”

Abigail tsked. “Some folk are too dumb to die.”

They could all agree on that. 

Whatever the reason for Arthur’s change in mood and opinion, Lenny thought later as he took up his shift in patrol and was only a _bit_ tipsy, he’d take it in stride from here on out. If it were a sincere attitude change, he supposed the fellow deserved the benefit of the doubt. Hosea and Dutch had, after all, always vouched for him. Lenny’d thought all the talk to be a product of the van der Linde brand loyalty mixed with the fact they’d all but raised Arthur. 

Now, he was starting to see Arthur himself might not have been so bad a fit for the gang as he’d thought.

. . .

Despite all his assurances to the family over Arthur’s change of heart meaning nothing, Hosea Matthews made a point to drag the boy out fishing the very next morning.

“Why _today?_ ” 

“No time like the present, my dear boy!”

“How’s your head not killin’ you like mine is me? I saw you drinking all last night. Hell, you had more than me.”

“I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“Cruel old man, s’ what you are… Enjoying my misery, I bet...”

For all Arthur grumbled and groused, his reddened eyes squinting in the early morning sun, he fetched his fishing gear fast and saddled up his horse even faster. So fast, in fact, he had to undo a number of straps to work out the folded-over kinks. Hosea chuckled at the sight, having been saddled and ready to go since before dawn broke. 

They greeted Lenny as they rode out. Hosea led the way, turning away from the lake their camp bordered and heading deeper into the wilderness.

As Arthur woke up and finished sobering up, the ride went quietly. Hosea made a comment here and there about the area, about how it’d suit them nicely for a few months more. Arthur agreed easily, but moved the conversation nowhere further. The boy didn’t even complain about how he wasn’t any good at fishing, which had been a staple to their trips as long as Hosea could remember. Hosea started wondering if he should’ve packed alcohol for the trip, as then he’d at least mind less that it was only his voice filling their shared company.

More than that, though, he felt certain he’d made the right call in taking Arthur along.

Something was up. Something had happened in those three weeks that he’d gone missing. Dutch had said as much. 

He’d find out what.

He led them to a quiet, shaded spot by a shallow river. They wouldn’t pull anything bigger than a pickerel, but the fish were hungry, and they didn’t need to struggle to hook something Pearson would find worth cooking.

Silence settled around them like a heavy blanket. Hosea put up with it for all of the first hour-- during which Arthur complained not _once_ about Hosea landing three fish to his one, instead complimenting Hosea’s skill in an uncharacteristically small-voiced murmur- before he decided he was done with Arthur’s brooding, sulky mood.

So, he started doing as he did best.

He talked.

“Remember the time we stopped by Baltimore and I got it in my head that there’d be some good fishing? Didn’t think we’d ever stop catching trash. Pulled three boots before we called it a day.”

The corner of Arthur’s mouth twitched, though he kept his head angled down and his ridiculously old hat in the way of Hosea catching his eyes.

“Had you try them on, only to find…”

“Not one of them matched, or fit.”

“And the third--”

“Had a crab.” A soft snort. “Pinchy bastard.”

“Now, you stuck your foot in _its_ home, that’s hardly the crab’s fault.” Hosea’s chuckle grew into a laugh. He gave his line a little tug to encourage more bites, letting Arthur keep his space by not looking over as he kept talking. “Your toe swelled up so big, we were sure it was going to get infected. Thank goodness it didn’t. We were so sure we were invincible, I’m not sure we’d have even stopped by a doctor. Then there was that time on Lake Erie, when it’d frozen over for the winter but the locals said they’d teach us ice-fishing...”

Though he didn’t laugh or respond beyond the most direct prompts, the tiny smile stayed on Arthur’s face as Hosea continued his stories.

By the end, they caught enough for Pearson to say their trip hadn’t been wasted. As Hosea finished wrapping the last with thin paper and placing it in Silver Dollar’s saddlebags, the sun had climbed half-way to its peak, its heat just beginning to warm dew-dappled grasses. The wildlife settled in for their noon nap, the far-off bugle of elk a last call for any sleepy stragglers. 

He’d noticed Arthur packing up slower than usual, but it wasn’t until Hosea had a foot in the stirrup, ready to climb into the saddle and forcibly not thinking about how much his knee protested it, that he noticed the boy hadn’t moved from the water’s edge. His folded fishing rod poked half-out of his satchel, one of his hands resting on its flap while the other seemed stuck to the back of his neck. 

A breeze swept through, rustling the thread on his hat and the fur lining of his coat. His horse, unacknowledged, lowered her head to nibble at what grasses she hadn’t eaten her way through. He still didn’t move. 

A few options ran through Hosea’s mind. The easiest was to saddle up, say he needed to get the fish back before they went bad, and head off. He’d see Arthur again at camp.

The easy path was right there, waiting to be walked. Hosea considered taking it.

Then, just as intentionally, decided to pull his foot out of the stirrup and walk back to the one that’d rode with them the longest instead.

“Arthur?”

His shoulders jumped, as if he’d forgotten where he was. His head twitched to the side, but then without even fully looking at him, ducked, in what was becoming a customary, don’t-look-at-me gesture. “Hm?”

“You alright?”

He took a little, sharp breath, and dropped both his hands to his sides.

Hosea knew then whatever he had to say would be a lie.

He said, “Yeah. Just fine.”

Hosea replied, “Huh.”

“Enjoying the day, is all,” he continued eventually, after too long a pause. Still wouldn’t look back. Had a hitch in his voice, too, that he clearly didn’t want to share. Everything in his body language told Hosea to back away and leave off.

Of course, that wasn’t much of an option. Hosea had always prided himself on knowing just how far to push, and he was pretty sure he still had quite a ways to go on this one.

“It’s certainly a gorgeous spot of land. Untouched for now. Wild, as it always had been.”

It wouldn’t be for much longer. The land was too pristine for men to look upon and _not_ want to stake their ownership. 

The gang could’ve. They had the funds for it.

They wouldn’t, addicted as they were to the life they led. But they’d talk the talk about the possibilities, as they always did. They’d boast about their bounties that made such a life impossible while dreaming of the peace they’d given up. Really, as long as they held together, it wasn’t so bad a lot.

(The idea that what Arthur wouldn’t say was something that’d lead the law to their camp crossed Hosea’s mind _once._ Then he banished it, as it was disrespectful and untrue and a horrid thing to think of a boy who had taken his ramblings on loyalty to such heart besides.)

Arthur didn’t deign to give him a reply.

After a moment of nothing but wilderness and the rustling of leaves in trees to listen to, Hosea ventured again, “Arthur?”

Quiet. In the distance, birds called. A raven crowed.

Then, gruff: “What?”

“Let’s head home.”

And just like that, he broke. 

Arthur Morgan had never been soft. But he had once been thirteen, and fourteen, and fifteen, and every year between that and thirty-and-some. A lot happened throughout a life like theirs, never mind when they were going on twenty-plus years. One memory of when Dutch and he had been separated from Arthur for two and a half weeks after a botched train job stood out in particular. Arthur had been with them for two years by that point, and they’d all agreed to meet at Bessie’s homestead if they were ever separated. 

It hadn’t been until they were separated that Hosea remembered Bessie had gone west to visit ailing family in California. As far from civilization as she lived, she hadn’t gotten a house sitter beyond somebody to come by and feed the chickens.

When Dutch and he finally showed up to her residence two weeks later than their separation point should’ve dictated (they’d had a terrible time shaking of lawmen, the job having _really_ gone pear-shaped), they found a scrawny, half-starved and dehydrated Arthur terrified out of his wits that they’d either abandoned him or that they’d died. He’d refused to leave the property after the chicken-feeder had been rude to him and refused to say where Bessie had gone, scared as he was of missing the two of them riding in. 

To this day, Hosea couldn’t tell which he’d been more afraid of: them being dead, or them deciding they didn’t have use for him and leaving him to figure out where to go from there.

There’d been other tragedies. It wasn’t always the big ones that registered as the worst, though. Yes, Bessie had died; yes, Arthur’s sweetheart and kid had been murdered; yes, they weren’t the nicest lot, and they had picked up more than a few folk that were rough-around-the-edges; and, yes, neither he nor Dutch had given the boy an inch lest he think the world would afford him a mile.

Sometimes it was Dutch picking John for a job over Arthur. Sometimes it was a reading lesson gone an hour too long. 

Sometimes it was just whatever ghost had decided to haunt them at that moment. 

Hosea was experienced enough to know there was no fighting any of it. Best to hunker down well as possible with those that were present, and wait out the storm, whatever shape it might take.

One moment, Arthur stood, facing away from him and acting all in all like the mean, tough brute he’d grown into. All stoic and unswayed by what was around him.

The next, Hosea had him in a tight embrace, his head shoved into the crook of his neck and his shoulders shaking over some nameless ghost’s grief. Hosea murmured heartening nonsense into his ear, rubbing his back soothingly. _You’re alright. It’ll be okay. I’m right here._ Arthur accepted it in a way he hadn’t since as long as Hosea knew him; as if he weren’t raised rough, and was instead any other child who hadn’t yet figured out shame and despair tended to walk hand-in-hand.

It was amazing how much smaller a fellow otherwise built like a brickhouse could get when he folded in on himself. His hat had fallen to the ground, knocked off by a swift fall and the virtue of Hosea’s chin planting where it had rested. Arthur clung to him like a man drowning, the sharp hitches in his breath to match the shaking that overtook the rest of him the only sign of him giving in to his ghost of the day.

Desperately, Hosea wanted to ask what was wrong. 

But he knew without asking that Arthur wouldn’t answer, not really. Most likely, he didn’t even know what straw had broken his back.

Instead-- when the tears dried (though Hosea would undoubtedly have a blotchy mark on his vest, that was just how it’d go) and the shaking evened out, Hosea gave him a firmer pat on the back and asked, “When’d you turn into such a great big oaf? I remember when you were ninety pounds soaking wet.”

That got him a derisive scoff and grumbled protest of _no I weren’t_ , watery though it went.

“I just, uh,” Arthur mumbled as he pulled back, immediately turning away from Hosea to grab the hat he was becoming so fond of hiding behind, “I, don’t know. That is. I.”

“Don’t stress about or think too much about it,” Hosea assured him, loathing only that awkwardness might inevitably ruin whatever fragility Arthur was working on repairing in his soul, “wouldn’t do to hurt yourself.”

That got him a baleful glare, though the puffiness of his eyes and big, wet sniff he had to take ruined its effect. Hosea smiled at it, and him.

Arthur wilted, again, the glare softening immediately into something sad. 

Immediately, Hosea wanted the glare back.

“Just missed you,” Arthur told him-- then hastened to add, “and everybody else. Is all.”

“You were only gone three weeks,” Hosea gently reminded him.

“Yeah,” he said, his expression shuttering-- a big, red _I’m hiding something_ alert, though Hosea couldn’t for the life of him figure out what or who he could possibly be covering for, “I know. It just felt like a lifetime.”

He’d wonder if it were that no-good Mary Linton again weaseling her way back into Arthur’s life with promises neither of them had a chance of keeping, except Arthur tended to get drunk, not teary, over her. 

Whatever it was, he’d have to trust Arthur would say when the time came. Once that happened, whatever wound had cut him so deep would’ve hopefully scarred enough that he could stand some comments about it. Hosea found he could wait, though he wasn’t too sure what he’d tell Dutch to get him to leave Arthur alone about it.

Well, he had the ride back to work that out. Talking was his specialty, after all. He’d think of something. 

He asked, half-turning back to the horses and jerking a thumb to emphasize, “Home?”

Arthur sniffed again, coughed, turned and spat, and finally, nodded.

“Home,” he said under his breath. Hosea pretended to not hear it.

Their ride home went as quietly as their ride in, though far less tensely. 

Caught up as he was thinking about what yarn to spin to get Dutch off Arthur’s tail about hiding something, he didn’t notice the raven taking wing from the tree that overlooked their fishing spot. He certainly didn’t notice it tracking them to their camp, or that its caw was a harsh, croaking noise that sounded closer to a warning than a call. He didn’t notice it was darker than night and had eyes that glowed red as embers under ash, and that its wings made no noise as it glided above them.

He didn’t, but Arthur did.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hooo boy this is why I don't write smut often, it just turns into 12k of ridiculously feelsy nonsense.
> 
> please mind the updated explicit rating and the tags! also, 'brother' here is used as a colloquial term, not that Arthur & John actually think of each other as brothers. we all saw Arthur's reaction to incest, lolol.
> 
> but seriously, this is majority porn with a side of emotion . . ;D enjoy, my friends.

Days passed without more trouble than they could handle.

Weeks passed. A month. They maintained their location, despite a few close calls following a bank job in Valentine (-- proposed by Arthur, confirmed by Mary-Beth --) and train heist as conducted by John (-- which, startlingly, went off without a hitch). They had money. They were well-stocked, well-supplied, and well-armed. They had some peace. 

It wouldn’t last, they all warned each other. They had to stay on their toes. There was only so long their luck could hold out.

It’d held out for months before. This time shaped up to be the same, and while they all knew it’d end sooner or later, they didn’t take the time for granted.

 _The nice Arthur_ , as Karen started calling him and others echoed, stuck around. They started getting used to that, too: to him taking the lead on more dangerous missions; to him greeting everybody at camp as he passed through, hauling in a deer or string of rabbits or trio of ducks; to him not taking off for days on end, but rather sticking around, his feet kicked up on a table and his journal in his lap, pencil in hand. 

A few complained he’d grown clingy. Those few were John, who liked the lack of hassling of his family and himself but didn’t like when Arthur’s teasing stopped being teasing and started turning into something too sincere for John to be comfortable with. The other of the few was Dutch, who had figured out Arthur always seemed to _be there_ when he was discussing business with anybody else.

“Starting to get the feeling you don’t trust me,” he’d semi-seriously joked, his smile at Arthur on the knife’s edge of sharp. “Hovering around me like you do.”

“Just don’t want to be left outta the loop,” would be Arthur’s breezy reply, his eyes holding Dutch’s gaze straight-on.

“You know you’re often the best man for a good job.”

Arthur hummed and looked away. Eventually, after what seemed to be a _pointed_ pause, he’d say, “Don’t mean to bother you,” and then he’d take off to the other side of the camp where he nonetheless was well within a sight-line or listening distance of Dutch’s tent.

Not _I always trust you, Dutch._ Not _I’d never._ Not the usual platitudes that Dutch hadn’t realized might have _been_ platitudes until they disappeared.

“Whatever happened with the Murfree brood,” Hosea would tell him later in the night, after the others had gone to bed and they were nursing tumblers of decent whiskey, “it gave him some sense of self that we can’t begrudge him.”

“I won’t have him questioning me in front of the others,” Dutch returned. “It causes trouble. They know he’s been around longest. They listen to him, too, as much as they do me or you.”

“You know that isn’t true.” Hosea would roll his eyes, albeit fondly. “We’re here for you, Dutch. He’s not trying to replace you. He’d never. He’s just… figuring out who he is, too.”

“He’s no twelve-year-old whelp, Hosea. Not anymore.”

“So we stop learning once we’re grown, Dutch?”

Hosea gave him a side-long look. Dutch held his gaze a moment, then found it to be too much and sighed, slumping forward to put his elbows on his knees.

Hosea clicked his tongue and took a sip of whiskey. “He’s a good man.”

“He’s decent,” Dutch allowed. “We did our best with what we had.”

“That we did.” He nudged Dutch on the shoulder. “Don’t doubt him so much. Where’s your famed faith?”

“I ain’t lost it,” Dutch said. “I ain’t. I’m just… thinking.”

“Think that’ll be our downfall. We’re always thinking. Did too much thinking to hang around the civilized, but too little thinking to make our way out.”

A rueful laugh. “Ain’t that the truth. Say, the coffers are looking decent, but I’m thinking we could do better...”

(Above them, perched atop the tent, feathers blending into the dark between the night’s stars: two ravens, watching, their eyes glinting red in the low firelight.)

The point was, the gang got used to the quiet. Arthur Morgan included.

He spent a lot of time with Jack. Fishing. Tracking nearby wildlife. Drawing and reading, even. The boy was the easiest to get along with, what with him not asking questions about Arthur’s opinions or, god forbid, his _mood_ , and him being a good kid, besides.

But, unlike most in the camp, the boy came with parents.

Abigail warmed to him faster than he expected, given what he heard of how his other self acted. She liked the fact that he’d do as she asked without _too much_ complaining, maybe, unlike her John, who seemed to do nothing _but_ complain (or so she told Arthur after he helped her move a pile of laundry from the tent to the stream for washing).

Except she said it with absolute fondness and no real conviction. John, yes, he complained; and he came and went, same as ever, working his jobs and providing for the camp and tip-toeing around Jack as if a six year old could do some serious damage to his heart. Arthur didn’t blame him so much for that belief, as it was well-earned and very real (and Arthur saw it clear as day, so he imagined Abigail did, too). He also spent time looking at Arthur hanging around his woman with a skeptical eye, not so much because he didn’t trust her but because he’d, somewhere, stopped trusting him. When he remembered the hurt, his barbs grew too sharp, and he’d as soon shove Arthur out of their space as he would just tell him to go.

That hurt, sometimes. Not always. Arthur knew he hadn’t been the best. Apparently, his _mean self_ could get worse.

A heartening thought in some strange, ironic way-- that he wasn’t the worst he could be. Didn’t make him feel like he was anywhere near the best, but it was something, and he’d take it. His other self obviously hadn’t a clue what good he’d had.

Then a social call by Hosea with the aid of a visiting Trelawney to one of Blackwater’s bankers - some man by the name of Mr. Geddes - returned with news of a big ferry job and, within the afternoon, Dutch rode into camp with a new gun in tow in preparation of said job. 

Then Arthur Morgan all but chased the new gun out with a gun of his own, and the peace broke into a thousand little pieces.

Javier had to snag his horse’s reins to keep him from bolting after the snake. Arthur had glared down at him for it, telling him to let go. When Javier did not, he’d unhappily climbed _off_ his horse, everything in him still singing with a bloodlust he hadn’t realized he’d been fostering. 

Dutch had gathered himself enough to get in his face, then. He put a finger into Arthur’s chest, then gave him a half-push, half-shove backward, demanding to know what the _hell_ had gotten into him. 

Behind him, a gathering began. Arthur had the feeling this was a moment a while in coming, though he couldn’t rightly say why. Unlike the first time around, Dutch hadn’t left any of them to die, and so he hadn’t much a qualm with him. He’d bucked Dutch’s expectations, he supposed, but not in any substantial way that he could see-- not like he had toward the end of his life. Not until Micah Bell waltzed in, at least.

“I spent a good time talking with Mr. Bell,” Dutch said. “He’s a damn good shot and not afraid to get his hands dirty. Exactly the sort we could use.”

“And I’m telling you,” Arthur hissed, a phantom pain pressing against his ribs and stealing his breath, “he’s _bad news._ As bad as that ferry job you’re fixing on.”

“We can talk about your _opinion_ regarding ferries later.” Dutch didn’t back down an inch, but neither did he raise his voice. He looked at Arthur like he’d look at a misbehaving dog (-- _or maybe, that was what Arthur could never unsee_ ). “How in the seven hells do you even _know him_ , Arthur?”

“I--” a stutter, hand cutting to the side as if dismissing it all, “- it don’t matter, but I’m telling you, he’s-- couldn’t you see the look he had? He’s bad news.”

“I’m afraid to inform you, dear boy, that he’s not the only one that could be said about. Set against this world and _their_ expectations, we’re all bad news one way or another.”

“It’s different.” A cough rose in his throat. He forced himself to speak through it, though he swore he tasted copper as he did so. “We’re different than them. You always said that.”

“What them are you talking about, exactly?”

“What differences have they got between them? They and them both ain’t us.”

Dutch licked his lips and searched his face. Arthur wasn’t sure what he found, but by the stiffness in his expression, it wasn’t anything he wanted to see.

“Listen,” Arthur pled, stepping close and ducking his head in, closing them off best he could from the five-or-six ghosts surrounding them, “trust me. Do the ferry job. Fine. Far as I’ve heard, it’s got a big yield. But you don’t want him running with us while we do it.”

“What do you know?”

“Only what my gut’s telling me.” He coughed, hastily covering his mouth with a gloved hand but refusing to look at it after. Dutch frowned at him, his brow furrowed low. “I swear it. Won’t… be nothing else. Hell, take the rest of my share of the reward clearing out the Murfrees got me and hire another gun. Just. Not. Him.”

Dutch stared him down. Arthur held the gaze, and put all he could into not shying away.

“Alright.”

Tight, but not dangerous. A warning, not a warcry. 

It was nothing like the hair-trigger anger of a Dutch cornered in Beaver Hollow, ranting to nobody and nothing before turning the demons he saw around him on Arthur.

Arthur sagged in relief, his breath rattling only a little. He coughed again to clear it-- shallow hitches, nothing compared to his illness in full swing, though it left an itch in the back of his throat. 

“Alright,” Dutch repeated, stepping back and, finally, looking around their little audience. Javier, Bill, Hosea, and a few others besides looked back, unashamed about being caught eavesdropping. Lenny and Tilly, Arthur saw, hastily looked away and back to their dominos. “Have it your way. Mr. Bell won’t be joining us.”

Arthur nodded gratefully, lacking as he was the breath to say a thing. 

“We’ll need to be even more thorough in our approach,” Dutch said, loud enough to be for everyone and anyone interested, “with one less gun. We’ll have to be twice as careful. But we _will_ be intercepting that ferry.

“Hosea. We have some planning to do.”

“Sounds like,” Hosea murmured, sparing a curious, maybe sympathetic look at Arthur’s hunched form as he turned on a heel and made for his wagon where he kept their maps and town blueprints.

“What’d you have against the feller?” Bill asked Arthur after they left. 

Javier backed him up, saying, “You shouldn’t judge a man by his cover, Arthur. Well, not always.”

Arthur, trying and failing to catch his breath, waved his hand at them and decided he very much needed space before he was prepared to field another twenty questions about stuff he wasn’t sure he could answer. And so he took his leave without explanation more than, “Not now, I’m heading out,” grabbing his horse’s lead and walking her to the camp’s edge.

Thankfully, they didn’t follow. He got a ways on foot before he saddled up, and then a ways more before the cough really took him. It rose hot and fast, like wildfire through dry brush: he doubled over his saddle horn before he knew it, a hand at his mouth and another pressed to his stomach. Under him, his horse stamped nervously, her ears flicking back and her head tossing. 

As he coughed and coughed and couldn’t get himself to stop, the world around him bled out its color. Ravens, perhaps sensing the soon-to-be-dead, flocked to the trees around him, their eyes devil-red and hungry.

 _Haven’t you done enough?_ they seemed to ask him. _Two lives is a bit greedy. Aren’t you tired?_

Vertigo hit and tilted the ground and sky. He felt himself slipping before he actually did. 

If he hit the ground, he didn’t feel it.

All he knew was the pain in his lungs and the blood in his throat.

Eventually, he found peace in darkness.

. . .

To his surprise most of all, Arthur woke again feeling fit to take on the world.

No cough. No blood. No drowning in his own lungs. A little too warm, but not because of a sickness burning in him. 

Just a fire crackling outside of a canvas tent and with it, the sounds of two familiar folk quietly talking; and within the tent, him, wrapped up so tight in thick wool blankets he was half-sure he’d suffocate.

He grew quite positive he’d cook alive if he stayed too long, so he wasted little time struggling out and getting himself propped up on his elbows, taking in the triangle-cut sight before him. Reality greeted him as an old, drunken friend, realized as it were in bits and pieces. He was fully clothed minus his boots, satchel and hat, all of which he spotted lined up real neat-like by the tent entrance. The coughing and collapsing and its accompanying bird-inspired hallucinations that preceded his waking up in a tent was clear, though not how exactly he’d gotten there.

The moments before his waking felt like a bad dream. Then again, the days before then still felt surreal, too, so he couldn’t be bothered to ponder on it too long lest he truly lose whatever scrap of sanity he had left.

At least the answer to how he’d gotten where he’d been put came clear as the familiar voices resolved themselves into a pair of familiar faces. They peeked around the tent edge, one remaining on the log he’d claimed as a seat but leaning forward while the other stood and stepped to the tent entrance. 

“Told you he’d be fine,” said the one that stayed sitting, though he couldn’t hide the relief writ across his face in how he kept on staring at Arthur. “He’s fallen off far worse than his horse. Hit nastier things on the way down, too.”

Sensing he wouldn’t be believed if he didn’t speak, he said, “‘Course I’m fine.”

“Yeah? You sound like a dying frog.”

Arthur tried to clear his throat, and only made himself wince over its sandpaper quality. 

Still, he wouldn’t let a little thing like a dry throat keep him from jabbing back. “Least my problem’s temporary. Not much hope left for you.”

“Boys,” Abigail sighed, turning away from the tent as she took their bickering to mean he was _actually_ fine-- which, he was, despite all odds--, “please. Would you like some water, Arthur?”

“That’d be much appreciated, ma’am.”

John scoffed. “ _Ma’am._ You known her since you barely had hair on your chin, and you’re calling her _ma’am._ ”

Abigail preened under the title, as Arthur knew she would. She shushed John, stooping to snag a waterskin out of a larger bag that they must’ve brought for the journey. 

“The way I see it, Mr. Marston, is at least he knows his manners.”

“Can’t blame his up-bringing, seeing as we was basically raised by the same folk,” Arthur said with faux sincerity, making Abigail laugh and John’s mouth inevitably twitch down at the edges. “Don’t know how to explain none of it sticking for him, ‘cept he having nothing in his skull for it to stick to.”

“Always so full of yourself,” John groused. “Day can’t go by without you crowing about your achievements, can it?”

Instead of replying, Arthur _hmm_ ed at him, interest temporarily caught by taking the waterskin from a smiling Abigail.

“Glad to see you looking better,” she told him, lingering by his makeshift bedside as he wet his throat. He drank too much at once, the cool relief on a parched throat irresistible, and ended up coughing -- only a little, though, and only enough to make him sit up even further to help clear the airway. She added as he did, “Careful. You was running quite the fever when we found you.”

He set his eyes on the waterskin, pretending to take her warning to heart. Muttered around the lip, “That right? A fever?”

“Abigail decided you’d be better off waking up out here than back at camp.” John scratched at the side of his neck, his eyes turning away from the two of them. “Probably for the best. Dutch… weren’t too pleased with losing that new gun.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t.”

“Yeah? And why was that, exactly?”

Arthur ignored the question. He’d said all he needed to say at the camp, and he knew word must’ve gotten back to John by the time the two set out to find him. If John wouldn’t leave alone, that was his own problem; Arthur wouldn’t feed into it.

He still wasn’t too sure what would happen if he did. Would he be called a lunatic? Undoubtedly. Would it even matter, or would the universe change to suit its own whims? It’d certainly taken to changing other little things-- like the camp’s location, or Dutch’s mind’s sickness, or even the color of Tilly’s dress, which was now a green instead of yellow. Who knew what it all meant. Who knew if Arthur’s memories, untrustworthy as they’d already been with or without his journal, wouldn’t lead them down the wrong path.

The uncertainty struck a nerve in him, and so he kept quiet. 

(He felt a coward for it, but that was nothing new. Especially not after he’d stuck so long in camp and not even bothered to return to where he was undoubtedly supposed to be-- with his _real_ home, broken though it was.)

Abigail eyed him, clearly knowing something more was afoot. Then again, it’d have taken someone much stupider to not notice. Arthur hadn’t exactly bothered to keep the dark from his tone over Dutch’s attenpted hire.

Something like a conscience and something like self-awareness -- both of which were best described as little annoying thorns in his side that he was sure Hosea had once-upon-a-time planted in him -- made him finally look up at the two of them. 

Gratitude softened his voice, though he’d have been loathe to say it aloud. At least they understood that.

“What’re you two doing out here, then?” 

They exchanged a glance. One of those knowing looks, the kind two folk who made up parts of a whole could trade that communicated a whole idea without words. Dutch and Hosea had a look like that, too. Lenny and Sean were close to reaching it.

Arthur’d yet to find anybody to share one with. Mary Linton and he hadn’t even come close.

Another sign he’d been too blind to read, but then, when it came to Mary, he could’ve filled a barn with what he hadn’t seen before it’d been too late.

“You were in a sorry state when you took off,” Abigail finally said, capping off her silent exchange with John with a pointed glare. John scrunched up his face at her, crossing his arms and leaning back on his seat. Arthur wasn’t too sure what to make of it, and so kept his mouth shut. “Lenny told us as much. Gave a few folks a real scare, how you ran off like that. We couldn’t have you being mauled by a bear because you weren’t paying any attention to your surroundings.”

“And Abigail decided she wanted a break from Jack and to get out of camp, so you were good a reason as any to head out.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sure. It was all ‘cause of me.”

“Well,” Arthur said, clasping his hands around his wrists and meaning what he said in ways beyond he could express, even if they didn’t realize the half of it, “thanks. Both of you.”

John shifted his weight and shuffled his feet, scraping his boots across the forest floor’s loose dirt. “You would’ve done the same for us.”

They didn’t know that. Arthur didn’t know that. It was something good friends did, going to look for folk who ran out after having a bad spat. Without the sickness pressing in and their world’s end drawing so near, would he have bothered? 

( _Yes_ , he told himself, but-- there was no knowing. Not really.)

“Luckily for all of us,” Abigail said, brightly enough to break the fragile feeling that had settled between John’s assertion and Arthur’s silence, “you weren’t a hard man to find. If you feel your hair’s a little shorter, it isn’t just a feeling. When we happened on you, your horse’d been nibbling on it.”

Arthur’s hand flew up to pat the top of his head, half-convinced he’d find a big bald spot and equally convinced it’d never regrow.

The sentiment must’ve shown on his face, as Abigail laughed and even John snickered. 

“Come on,” Abigail said, hitching up her skirts as she moved back to the bag she’d pulled the waterskin from, “John rustled up some rabbit while you were napping. Figure we could all do with a bite to eat.”

“You wanna cook?” John asked Arthur as he smoothed down the hair that hadn’t been nibbled an inch shorter and got himself out of the haphazard blanket nest.

Arthur deferred, diplomatic to the last, “Abigail, if you’d like--”

“-- And have us all be sick as dogs? No, sir, I’ll leave the cooking to you.”

John coughed, though it sounded more like a laugh, and was very suspiciously hidden behind a hand. “You heard her, Arthur. Got to give the lady what she wants.”

“Least I try, John Marston!”

“Sometimes I really wish you wouldn’t.”

Abigail pulled an unskinned rabbit from behind the bag only to shoot John a glare. 

As Arthur watched, it dissolved swiftly into a grin and another, littler laugh. “Yeah. Me too.”

The two had another one of those silent conversations with only their eyes and some stupidly soft expressions. Arthur ruined it, however, as John’s gaze eventually drifted over his way and he blinked and immediately frowned. 

John asked, “What?”

“What?” Arthur echoed.

“You’ve got a dumber than usual look on your face.” 

“Was just wondering,” Arthur started, then stopped.

And restarted, deciding he was done thinking twice about everything in this world. “Is that the firelight,” meaning to sound teasing but somehow losing it on his way to speaking, “or are you turning pink?”

John sputtered a denial, which _really_ made Abigail laugh.

Arthur couldn’t stop his own grin, though it just made John more determined to show him what was what. By the time the fire began to die, the rabbit cooked and their stomachs full of seared-and-minted meat, he still hadn’t managed, but the three of them did eke out a dozen more laughs.

When the moon began its descent down the other side of the sky, their conversation had long since died into companionable, warm silence. In the beginning, Abigail had sat herself right next to John; by the end, she had her head on his shoulder while he had his arm around her waist. Arthur rested his eyes on them without caring about how long: they were a soft sight and not one he much wanted to forget, though it did twist something not-so-unfamiliar but most-definitely-strange right under his sternum. 

As Abigail yawned for the fifth time in as many minutes, he busied himself with fetching a cigarette from his satchel and shoving the feeling back down to the pits of his mind where it belonged. He said, half-mumbled around his smoke, “You two turn in. I’ll take first watch.”

“You will do no such thing,” Abigail said, because despite her looking tired enough to fall over, she apparently never ran out of energy. In that way, her and John were well matched. “We ain’t so important as to necessitate any _watch_ out here in the wilds.”

Arthur looked to John for back up, but found none. John just looked back at him, blinking slow before switching his expression to an unconcerned, _what? She’s right._

Damn couples and their silent conversations. Didn’t make a lick of sense how they got whole debates done. Arthur couldn’t even manage a simple plea.

“There’s only space enough for two bodies in there.” He cut out the bullshit between him insisting she were wrong -- which, alright, she wasn’t, not as close to the Grizzlies as they were and low a profile as they still somehow, miraculously maintained -- and finding another angle to get the two to take to their own bedrolls. “Got enough rest to last me a while. You two could stand to catch up.”

And he’d find some reason to sneak off a little farther from camp while they did so. He weren’t stupid. Camp didn’t offer an inch in ways of privacy. If the two had wanted to get out and _stay_ out, it weren’t just because of them looking for him. 

Abigail, bless her heart, kept on frowning. 

She insisted, though she didn’t sound quite as certain as usual, “There’s room for three if nobody gets shy.”

John looked a bit more awake at that.

Arthur, unsure how to really respond, cleared his throat and ducked his head. He hadn’t put his hat back on, so there was no brim to hide behind, but the sentiment was there. 

“I don’t mind taking watch,” he emphasized to the ground.

“He says he don’t mind,” John echoed. 

He didn’t sound entirely convinced. Arthur didn’t really get what there was to be convinced about.

“You was just talking about how you’ve known each other too long.” Abigail lifted her head from John’s shoulder. “I’ll sleep in the middle if you two are going to be such children about it.”

Arthur cleared his throat again, louder. “I don’t know if that really helps none.”

Then, just to drive home how much he _really_ wasn’t picking up Arthur’s meaning, John said: “No, no. It… that’d be fine. With me.”

 _What._ Arthur looked up, but what he expected -- some distrust, maybe discomfort --, he didn’t find. Rather, John looked right back him, steady as anything. A little cautious, yes, but not with the jealousy men usually got over another taking the same bed as their woman.

(Not that it was _like that._ They was just discussing sleeping arrangements.)

Abigail was dead set on it being like that, too. The two-for-one weighed heavy on Arthur’s shoulders. They seemed to be expecting him to understand something in this strange game, but he hadn’t a clue what it was. 

His heart had a mind that it wasn’t anything so simple as sleeping, and kicked up to beating at twice the pace. There was no way he’d be falling asleep in the next hour.

 _And yet,_ when he opened his fool mouth, what came out was:

“Uh. Alright, then.” 

“Alright,” John echoed yet again. Thank goodness, he turned his attention from Arthur to Abigail. 

He looked like he were begging an explanation too. Or maybe that was wishful thinking on Arthur’s part.

She weren’t to be cowed by the queer feeling that’d taken over their little camp. She stood, brushing imaginary dust off her skirt, and said, “Alright. Let’s settle in.”

They did. She’d packed her nightgown, because she was ever prepared (or so she explained). John checked that their horses were properly hitched and their leftover meat stored up in a tree and away from the prying paws of black bears and coyotes. He interrupted his own work to shoo a trio of ravens that had settled on the branch, cursing the birds for being unusually persistent pests (as, Abigail explained, they’d had to chase a few off Arthur too when they’d found him. Arthur kept his thoughts about the matter to himself, and swallowed any dread that dare arise). 

Arthur fixed up the bedrolls and blankets, only to find that true to his prediction, two fit fine while a third had to be wedged half-up on the tent wall. Fortunately, they’d staked the canvas enough that it stayed upright well enough, but it definitely restricted its occupant to sleeping on one side and not daring to breathe lest he jostle somebody else.

Its occupant turned out to be Arthur, as he was already feeling a mite contrite and bad about the whole thing. He gave John shit over being spoiled til the end as the other settled into his nice flat sleeping place, to which John offered (faster than Arthur expected) to take the half-bent bedroll if Arthur was going to bitch so much about it.

“No, no, I got it,” Arthur huffed, settling in on his side before he could think twice and be smarter about the whole situation by _not_ having to pretend he were asleep.

True to her word, Abigail slipped between them. They had two blankets between the three of them and the encroaching cold of the foothills during nighttime, and so decided to share. 

“Just you wait,” came John’s voice from the other side of a still-trying-to-get-comfortable Abigail, “we’re gonna wake up, and she’ll somehow have all the sheets.”

“If I didn’t,” she returned, “you’d turn ‘em all damp with your drooling. Nobody wants soggy sheets, John.”

“Better any sheet than no sheet, woman.”

“You take a dip in the river and then tell me you’re happier with those clothes than you would be in your birthday suit.”

“I don’t drool _that_ much.”

Arthur huffed a laugh. 

In the dim light, he saw Abigail slip him a small smile. At last, she decided she was comfortable on her side with her back to John. Her eyes drooped immediately, her sleepiness catching up fast. 

Before too long, John’s arm draped over her side. Arthur couldn’t see it, exactly, but he could see the outline under the blanket. He curled his arm up, his hand settling on hers. Whatever awkwardness Arthur felt was clearly just his own; the two of them fit together without any fuss, and would have no trouble catching sleep.

Slowly, piece by piece in the quiet of the night, the tension eased. The twist in his chest eased-- then twisted, sharp, the other way.

(Jealousy was an ugly beast that Arthur had yet, or ever, to rid himself of.)

“Good-night,” Abigail said, her voice not so much cutting the darkness as complementing it.

Arthur and John murmured their own _night._

Out of their little tent, an owl set to its late-night call. Though the air outside dropped enough they were bound to see frost in the morning, the air within the tent - its flap pulled and tied shut and its occupancy full to burst - warmed. The absolute quiet of a night far from civilization settled around them, worn and warm and beloved. 

For the life of him, Arthur could not sleep.

His shoulders began to hurt from digging into the ground, so he turned to his other side.

Then facing the tent meant a faceful of cold canvas that refused to be chased off, so he switched back.

The shoulder renewed its cramping hurt, and he took a moment to wallow in frustrated, late-night self-pity over his lot. 

Though he’d been very careful about moving as quietly as possible, apparently he hadn’t been quiet enough, because when he began to work his way to his other side for the second time (thinking maybe the canvas wasn’t as cold as he remembered), John’s voice caught him in the act. 

“Would you knock it off and settle down?” It snapped.

“M’trying,” Arthur growled back, thankful it was John complaining and not Abigail.

But then that went to hell, too, as she said, “Alright,” like a declaration, and then, “this isn’t working.”

The silence in the moment between that and Arthur’s next statement didn’t feel so warm or beloved.

He said, “Think it’s best if I--.”

“I didn’t mean like _that._ ”

He froze, halfway to upright as he was.

Abigail had her hand around his wrist. It burned like a brand, though Arthur couldn’t tell if the heat poured off her or him. Certainly, his face felt afire.

She propped herself up on her elbow. In the dark, the black of her eyes seemed blown wide.

Behind her, John’s gleamed. Watching. Waiting. 

A rare moment of patience from John Marston, as out of place as-- everything. He didn’t have that much patience except on the most complex of jobs.

“Stay,” she said. 

Then, when neither he nor John said a thing, she demurred, “You don’t gotta. But. We’d like you to.”

The twist in his chest felt primed to rip his heart clean out. His heart, racing fast, didn’t put up much of a protest, though it thundered in his ears.

To be fair to his heart, Arthur Morgan wished he could say he put up much of a protest, too.

In truth, he couldn’t say he put up any protest.

Certainly, he didn’t say a thing when she took his stillness as acceptance and ran her hand up his arm to cup the back of his neck. Absolutely, he didn’t resist at all when she pulled him in for a kiss, though he didn’t stop his eyes from darting to John’s, neither. 

John was up on an elbow, too. They were all up. What a great development, them all being up at the same time.

What a peculiar development: Abigail Roberts kissing him.

“You okay?”

That, murmured low against his lips.

His, “I’m,” and, “yeah,” she ran her tongue along his - or hers, maybe, the difference was difficult to distinguish - upper lip, and then dipped into his lax mouth, and gripped a little harder on the back of his neck, and if he responded, well, she’d started it.

“Good,” she breathed, a whole world of experience in that word of her knowing what she did to men, and put her other hand around his side and moved closer and pulled tighter until he was on his back and she’d straddled his stomach. Her nightgown had bunched up to her waist under his hands laying light and wondering on her hips, her hair slipping from its braid in a frizzy line that caught the starlight and, far as he could tell, glowed.

All that, and they still hadn’t stopped kissing. The very small part of Arthur that wasn’t completely taken with Abigail expected and braced for John pulling her off and throwing a fist with enough force to break his nose and possibly a few of his teeth, which was the smallest price he could think to pay for what he was doing. 

_Except,_ the even smaller portion of Arthur that was still functioning with something that resembled logic (it, unlike before, sounded very much like Dutch) pointed out, _she’d_ started it. And John wasn’t ending it.

Not immediately, at least.

Abigail was no tiny woman. She was more bone than muscle as compared to them, sure, but she stood at a decent height and had managed to keep a little fat on her from Jack’s birth and through the camp’s occasional food shortages. Sometimes, Arthur wondered if she weighed more than John; she was, at least, wider at the hips, and just as wide at the shoulders.

Abigail compared to John was a closer race than John probably would’ve liked in the weight department. But Arthur had height and weight on both of them, and with Abigail, it showed: his hands spanned her waist, a mere hand’s width from touching behind her back; when she slipped herself further south from his stomach to settle on his pelvis, warm and heavy, she had to stretch to keep her mouth anywhere near his. She had his face between her hands. All that, and all his brain wouldn’t leave off the feeling of her breasts pressed against his chest.

By then, though, she distracted herself with trailing her lips along his jawline and down his neck. It shortened the air in his lungs, a breathless feeling made newly painless.

“Fuck,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Then, though his blood was determined to move south and leave him to his own mercies without a chance for thought, he said, more vehement: “ _Fuck,_ ” and got his trembling hands to grip her hips tighter and pull her up a little to--, “Stop. _Stop._ Shit. Abigail?”

She stopped, immediately. Even pulled off his neck, her face hovering around his, her eyes searching his. 

She was somewhat breathless, too, which he resolved not to linger on. “What? Arthur?”

He jerked his head toward John. Then, without even knowing what he’d found in John’s expression, winced his eyes closed.

She said, “Oh.”

Lightly. 

Uncaringly.

(He almost threw her off right then, anger rising so quick as to put red spots in his vision.

Anger at her, but moreover, at himself. This was-- _this was his--_ )

She said, “John. You gonna join in or not?”

“Didn’t look like you much needed my help.”

“Stop sulking.” First. Then, “He wants you, too.”

“I what?” Arthur said, confused at how he’d been dragged into the conversation when he could barely track what they were saying to each other. 

At the same time, John said, “Looks like he’s doing fine,” and he sounded--

Off. Weird. 

Hurt?

Not quite. Something else. More like… bitter.

“Arthur?”

That, from Abigail. 

Struggling both from lack of light and light-headedness, Arthur focused on her.

“Wha’?”

She looked down at him for too long a moment. Her hair had fallen over her shoulder, its end tickling Arthur’s ear. He stared back at her, not daring to blink, let alone breathe.

“We don’t gotta,” she said. Again. 

“I don’t know what we don’t gotta,” he admitted.

Somewhere to his left, John made a noise Arthur couldn’t decipher.

“Sure,” she said. Sat back. Fully, her back straight, her hands propped light on his stomach. Her legs lined his sides, her knees pressed at the end of his ribs. “That’s alright. Think I took it too fast.”

John drawled, sarcastic as ever, “You think?”

She sent a _look_ John’s way. Arthur tried to follow it, but failed to see it land. Far as he could tell, John was just-- sitting there. Also upright, blanket pooled around his legs. He had two buttons of his union shirt undone, but that didn’t mean anything. John didn’t know how to button up and look presentable if his granny rose from the dead and dragged him by the ear to a Sunday mass.

That was easier to think about than what was going on around him. He kept his eyes on John, not Abigail.

“John,” she said.

John made an acknowledging noise, pulling his own eyes up from Arthur’s to meet Abigail’s. When he wasn’t looking, Arthur took the chance to swallow around the terrible dryness in his throat. 

“Come here.”

Abigail lifted a hand from his stomach to beckon John over. A quick curl of the fingers, a flick of the wrist-- and John followed it, practically lurched forward, like a spring wound tight finally sprung.

When he reached her, he kissed her like he was dying and she was the way out. It was sloppy, hasty, clumsy. All passion, no finesse. Everything Arthur would imagine kissing John was like. 

Had imagined. Maybe. Once or twice. Possibly more.

It’d been a while. Not much time to think about kissing anybody when even getting out of a bed took enough energy to begin wishing he’d stayed in it-- and, after that, when surrounded by a happiness he was sure couldn’t last.

None of that mattered in this tent, though. Not with how John breathed so shakily on his exhale at the slightest break in their kiss. Not as she slowed his return with a hand on his jaw, tilting his head and easing up the collision he seemed set on causing. 

“Did you two discuss this?” Arthur had the mind to ask, though barely. The thought to follow was: _do you always do this?_

Luckily, he had more restraint than to ask, and enough sense to already know the answer would be a loud _no._

For all she laid into John about anything she could and regardless her past, Abigail was not the sharing kind. 

For all his foot-dragging over Jack and chronic foot-in-mouth syndrome around her, John’s eyes never strayed.

Except. Apparently. They had.

John said, “Obviously,” around their kiss while Abigail said, “Yes, we did. We tried to talk to you, too, before we were--”

A hitch of breath. Distraction.

John had a hand on her chest, his thumb rubbing over the thin fabric.

Arthur saw it. Abigail saw he saw it. 

Then she had her hand wrapped around John’s, and with a low, _John_ , forcibly shoved it down to rest, awkward-but-not, over Arthur’s where it still rested on her hip.

Arthur’s fingers twitched. John’s weight was feather-light-- the rest of him had frozen, uncertainty racing tension across his shoulders.

“-- before we were here,” she finished, voice a tad higher. “But. Well.”

“ _Well_ ,” Arthur agreed, less dizzy but no less baffled.

“Were we wrong?” Her eyes moved to Arthur’s. Pinned him there. She was all confidence, all _you say what you like and we’ll consider it_ bluster, but underneath that, he saw a spot of hesitance. Maybe he saw it only because he could see both of them, and of the two, John was much worse at hiding his wariness (to Arthur’s eye, anyway; to Arthur, who’d known him for too long not to). “I thought. A lot of things, I suppose.”

 _Obviously_ , he thought, but again, didn’t say.

“Thought you might be alright with kissing me,” she continued, as she was fortunately not a mindreader, “and even kissing him.”

Arthur’s gaze snapped to John.

John met it, though his frown deepened into a scowl. 

Defensive, Arthur’s mind supplied. Ready to bite. 

In other words: vulnerable. 

So, despite all the odds, Abigail wasn’t talking crazy.

“Maybe,” Arthur allowed, a mumble. Embarrassment crept up his neck, spreading pink to his ears in seconds flat. He became suddenly, irrationally glad for the darkness in the tent. 

(He’d spare a thought to _that ain’t the natural way of things,_ except he’d been raised better than that - one of the rare, rare occasions he could say as much with any degree of confidence - and knew far worse things for a man than who he kissed, besides.)

“Maybe?” John practically spat the word, his defensiveness switching instantly to offense. He tore his hand from Arthur’s, balling it on the floor into a white-knuckled fist. “What’s there to be maybe about? Either you do or you don’t.”

“Maybe,” Arthur growled back, sliding easily into their usual tendency to bite at each other first and foremost even when the thing they sunk their teeth in felt as fragile as it did, “if you weren’t such a greasy bastard, I would.”

“And if _you_ weren’t such a hardass, I--”

“Shut _up_ , both of you,” Abigail snapped, smacking her hand into the center of John’s chest and giving him a rough shove back.

He tumbled back with a curse, deer-thin legs going akimbo.

Arthur would’ve laughed, if only to prove John’s point about him being an ass, except Abigail fixed him with a withering glare that was fit to wilt metal. Built no stronger than metal, Arthur wilted.

“If that’s how you two are fixing to behave,” she said, tone booking no room for argument, “then we’re ending this now. I won’t lay with children.”

Arthur’s heart stuttered. His breath caught in his throat and held for three long, unbroken seconds.

To the side, John seemed to do the same, as he again froze up. 

It must’ve shown on their faces, as Abigail’s glare cooled.

“Let’s begin again. We’re taking this slow,” she informed them. “You’re both following what I say.”

Arthur expected John to complain, but he didn’t. He kept his mouth shut. When Abigail looked his way, he even gave a little nod.

(Then Arthur wondered if he _really_ expected John to complain, and-- actually, maybe he didn’t.)

She then looked his way. After a second, he nodded too.

“Good boys.” In her mouth, the term turned sardonic. She put one hand over Arthur’s, wrapping her fingers loosely around his wrist. The other, she used to once more beckon John over. “John. Come here.”

As he’d started moving the moment she had her fingers curled in his direction, she needn’t have said anything. 

Similarly, she said, “Kiss me,” even as he already was leaning in to do so. It was a less sloppy, less clumsy, less desperate meeting. True to what she’d said, it moved slow. 

All the same, it became obvious their attention had tangled up in one another. While before such a display had turned him green with envy, the lack of pressure now eased a piece of the tension that had built up without Arthur’s notice in his chest. His heart still beat fast, but no longer did it feel fit to burst. His breath had slowed, too, to something manageable. Something kinder, to him and them.

Once more, she touched her fingertips to John’s jaw. He tilted where she wanted without much encouragement. Arthur had the picture of a well-trained horse -- the slightest pressure at the corner of the mouth, and he knew where she wanted him to go. Not only that, but he went. 

He practically melted into it, too. Arthur hadn’t noticed how deep - how similar to Arthur’s - John’s tension went until it started to ease up. He swayed into Abigail’s orbit, though he did not lean on her, and this time around, his hands stayed put on the ground.

It was all very contrary to what Arthur knew of John in the waking world.

But then, ever since he’d woken to them tending to him so nicely, he’d felt he were in a dream.

Eventually, she drifted her hand to his chest and gave him a little push back. He went, though reluctantly, his eyes shining slivers under heavy, hooded lids.

“Kiss him,” she said.

Suddenly back in the limelight, Arthur tensed.

John swallowed, his eyes more alert. He looked to Arthur.

Arthur looked back.

“John.” Barely a breath. Barely a murmur. “I said, kiss him.”

It was enough.

Slowly, _carefully_ , John leaned toward him.

It should’ve been strange. It should’ve been awkward.

It was a brush of the lips, a hitch of shared breath, the prickle of stubble-- the hand around his wrist tightening, briefly, encouragingly-- and a kiss.

One turned to two, and rapidly grew thereafter.

Gone was the control Abigail had cultivated. John kissed him fast and messy, more teeth than lip; he had a hand fisted in the front of Arthur’s shirt, and another pressed beside his head so he could lean in closer, get closer, be closer. Arthur, for his part, set one hand against his shoulder and shoved his other through John’s hair, ignoring the knots and tangles he interrupted along the way; he tangled up his fingers when John gave him a low growl of, _your breath’s terrible_ , and tugged a fistful when it prompted a pleased hum.

The kiss wasn’t great. It was too uncoordinated, too full of unspoken words and years-old hurts and loves for that.

It was _good._

“There we are.” From far away, the voice too glad for Arthur to care to surface from John and see what expression matched it. “Just needed some encouragement.”

Against his mouth, John huffed. The noise puffed against Arthur’s cheek. Their eyes cracked open at the same time, and so the kiss soon broke. Though he expected to be left some space, John instead put his forehead to Arthur’s, his breath shaky and words moreso. His eyes, he had glued to Arthur’s mouth. Arthur’s eyes, he couldn’t quit drinking in what he never thought he’d see: just, this.

Without explanation, Arthur understood. He felt the same tremor in his everything, though he did his best to re-collect himself in the small space between one breath and the next.

“Always thinks she knows what’s best,” John murmured. 

“Look at her company,” Arthur responded in the same tone, rough and low, “she’s got a better shot at being right than us, that’s for sure.”

John huffed again, though the corner of his lip turned up. “This was a terrible idea. Her ego’s already big enough without you around.”

“ _She_ is right here.”

Pulling back some to look at her, face far too soft for Arthur to feel comfortable, John said, “And ain’t that something.”

Abigail clicked her tongue. “Charming only when you need to be, John. That’s you.” But she was pleased, that much was clear.

“Hey,” Arthur said, and then-- meant to say something else, except both of them turned their attention on him and he wasn’t too sure what he was meant to do with that aside from getting his hands back in John’s hair and pulling him down for another kiss. 

A better kiss. Less teeth. More wonderment.

As they did, Arthur smoothed his thumb over John’s right cheek, unable to stop himself. His memories expected to find the clean dip of scar tissue, but what he met was the uninterrupted beginnings of a beard. 

Somehow, his fool mind wandered to the mountains. He wondered if the O’Driscolls had ran up there even though the van der Lindes stayed south. He wondered if Sadie were still making a living with her sweetheart, or if he were dead, or if he and her were dead, with no rival outlaws there to accidentally rescue either. 

Instead of Sadie, her house would be fine. Nobody around to knock over any lanterns.

It weren’t anywhere close to an upgrade. Not that he would’ve cared one way or another if he hadn’t gotten to know the woman. 

When’d he start caring about stuff like that? Except he didn’t, not really. Cruelty practically made up the world’s bones. Hell, he contributed to it. He only cared if he knew them. Except here, he had a chance to keep the Adlers from being hurt at all, and he hadn’t even bothered to look for them. Too busy with his own stolen happiness to steal more for folk he no longer had reason to know.

The very thought sank dark humor into his bones and curdled the food in his stomach.

“Where the hell’s your head gone?”

Then the mountains and O’Driscolls and Sadie Adler were gone, the thoughts robbed by the fact that at some point, John had replaced Abigail on straddling his waist while Abigail had begun rustling around in their valuables. She’d paused to glance over her shoulder at them at John’s comment.

Arthur dropped his hand from where it’d frozen on the side of John’s face, thumb caressing his cheek for who-knew how long. He put it instead somewhere much safer: John’s waist, bonier and thinner though it was compared to Abigail’s.

He had to swallow a few times to get his throat working again, but he managed. Distantly, he recognized his lips were feeling bitten-over and rough. It weren’t so bad.

“Just thinking.”

“Wouldn’t want to see about what.” 

“Nothing you ain’t seen before.”

Looking unconvinced and unplacated, John shifted his weight where he was seated. The movement against his groin - the very real, very present, very warm and somewhat stiff line of John’s that Arthur was suddenly made quite aware of - made Arthur swallow again, though it felt he had nothing to swallow down or around.

“Well, knock it off.” John tossed his head, trying and failing to get his hair out of his face. His voice started gruff, but eased up. A little more kind. A little more like he really didn’t need to know what Arthur’s mind decided to catch on to understand what had happened. “Be here. With us.”

“Doing my best,” he said, and meant it. After a beat, half-awkwardly, half-mumbled, all a few words he wished he could take back soon as he said them, “Maybe if you--?”

Except John really _was_ taking it easy on him, because he said without skipping a beat, “I can do that,” and bent forward, put them chest-to-chest, his teeth nipping at Arthur’s jawline, and so did just that.

Far as distractions went-- and now that Arthur could say he was mostly on the same page-, it worked like a charm.

Worked just like necking with any girl, too, except there were hard angles and sinewy muscle were he expected curves and softness. He tilted his head back and gave a shaky exhale as John worked over his neck, then caught an earlobe and gave it a tug with his teeth. Ran himself a hand over John’s back, then decided to drag his nails on the up. Time-worn fabric wrinkled under his hand as he did, the static making his fingertips numb.

“Why’re we still in these blasted things,” he muttered, the sentiment sudden but not untrue.

“We was taking it slow,” John returned, edged in mirth. “On account of your head being a piece of work, apparently. To the surprise of absolutely nobody in here.”

“Anybody else wouldn’t be shocked at having their brother’s wife roll over on him in the middle of the night?”

“You seen her?” John put more weight on his chest, easing his legs out and back-- laying down properly on Arthur like he was some big sofa, forcing _him_ to get his legs up on either side of John. Another not so bad move. It certainly put more weight where his body was finally waking up. “Anybody else would’ve been overjoyed.”

“And you would’ve been, too, I take it,” Arthur drawled. At the same time, he tightened his hands on John’s hips-- helping him along as he started moving against him, a slow, interested grind that was more give than take.

“Could tell you was expecting me to clock you,” John snickered, then groaned, his head dropping to press into Arthur’s shoulder as Arthur planted his feet more firmly on the ground and tilted his hips up, gave them more friction to work off of, “and I would’a. If it hadn’t been you.”

“Ain’t I special.”

“Been--,” a bitten-off curse. Arthur ducked his head. On cue, John lifted his and there they went, stealing another kiss. Against his mouth, the word less than a harsh shiver: “ _Thinking._ ”

“About this?”

“Yeah.”

“Would’ve--”

“Maybe you would’ve, but I wouldn’t’ve. Not til recently.” This, with a spot of old hurt. Arthur bared his teeth against it, bucked his hips to stave it off, rumbling his unhappiness deep in his throat, but then-- he weren’t the only one who’d had a knife driven in him before. John bore the silent dissent and, in true him-fashion, not only barreled right through it, but gave as good as he got. Drove his knees more into Arthur’s sides, their slow grind taking on a heated, pointed pace. It didn’t feel nice and was only pleasant so long as neither thought about it. “When I’d come back, you were a right bastard to me.”

“You weren’t much a prize yourself, John Marston.”

 _That_ derailed Arthur’s barbed, just-as-hurt response. Abigail reminding them of her watching stilled their frotting, too, both their chests heaving as they stepped back from whatever edge they’d teetered on. It might’ve led to some physical burn off of their shared heat, Arthur thought, but the landing definitely wouldn’t’ve been pleasant. Whatever the emotional equivalent of spikes would be. Like a theater date with Mary Linton in Saint Denis.

“Now,” Abigail continued with a sniff, wrinkling her nose at the both of them as she hoisted an unmarked tin and shook it at them, “am I welcome back into the mix, or do you two want more time to reminisce on bygone days that don’t much have a place in the present moment?”

“What’s that?” Arthur asked, breathing heavy but not so heavy he couldn’t squint suspiciously at unmarked tins.

“You brought--” John groaned with exasperation, sitting back and leaving Arthur’s chest feeling mighty cold. “Jesus, woman. Didn’t see you pack that.”

She gave him the same dimpled smile she’d probably given every mark she ever lifted a billfold off of. “Said I was prepared.”

She popped the lid, and by its smell, Arthur figured it to be grease. Bear, maybe. Something slick and thick.

As it just so happened, John hadn’t been the first fellow Arthur’d taken a tumble with. There’d been one in his mid-teens-- a drunken affair, more circumstance than intention, all hands. Then another a few months after Eliza had passed, Arthur having been ready to try anything and everything the world had to offer lest he be stuck another second with his own thoughts. Again, a hand-and-mouth type meeting, and again, more drunk than not. Gave a fellow plausible deniability, said the man, who clearly had more experience than his initial shock-feigning over being led to a one-bed hotel room had led Arthur to believe. He’d slicked up his hand with grease and tried groping a few around Arthur’s backside, but even drunk and hurting, Arthur hadn’t been too keen on letting a random fellow--- presume _that_ far.

Getting caught wasn’t much worth the risk for those like Arthur, who found he was plenty happy with a stable person to call his own. But then Eliza was still dead and Mary had turned out to be too good for the likes of him, and he didn’t much have the heart or time to find another.

Sleeping around in the camp was a nightly occurrence for some of their folk, but in honesty, when it crossed Arthur’s mind, it filled him with dread. Things hadn’t worked with those he’d tried to settle down with before. What would he do if things didn’t work with somebody he couldn’t just run off from? Better they be family than nothing, he’d thought. 

Except this didn’t feel like nothing. He’d pay John and Abigail the respect that they didn’t intend for _nothing_ , either. 

Nonetheless-- the point _was_ , Arthur had an idea of what the grease was for when it came to men. 

“I’m not too sure--,” he started, not sure even as he spoke what he wasn’t too sure of and hoping desperately his mouth would sort it out as he went.

Abigail didn’t let him finish, though. “Ain’t for you.”

As he also had an idea of what the grease could do for a woman, he scrunched up his face at her. “You sure you want to? Lotta work for you, not much payoff. If it’s-- another Jack you’re worried about, don’t be. I’m feeling fine as is. Don’t need to-- uh-- stick- you know.”

Abigail gave him a queer look.

Above him, John dragged a hand down his face. His breathing had evened out, Arthur noted. Arthur wished he could say the same.

“It’s for me, you,” he struggled for a second on what insulting name he wanted, and finally settled on, “ _idiot._ ”

That locked Arthur’s eyes on him.

A few things came to mind. 

What made it out his mouth was a quiet, “Oh.”

“ _Oh,_ ” John repeated at a higher pitch, mocking him.

Arthur’s face heated.

Abigail, ever the rational one - bless her soul yet again -, calmly explained for Arthur, “Leave the worrying about another _Jack_ to me. God knows I wouldn’t trust it to either of you.” 

Then, as Arthur fully registered that not only did she think to pack grease, but that she and John used it enough to have their own tin for it, she added, “Don’t worry about John, neither. He looks a mess, but I manage to keep him clean.”

“Hey,” John protested weakly. “I keep myself just fine.”

“He likes it rough,” she told Arthur without missing a beat. Like she was explaining how to skin a rabbit. Completely shameless.

Arthur’s heart caught on to what they were laying down and began to kick up again, sweat prickling his palms.

“But first,” she continued, forcing away his nerves with her sheer confidence and direction, and he was starting to see-- aside from the rest of them, aside from the camp being in their blood and their way of life with no escape in sight- why, exactly, John had come back, “you’re both overdressed.”

“We’re all overdressed,” John corrected. 

Unswayed, Abigail put the tin near John’s foot and then sat back on her haunches, not touching either of them. “I’ll keep taking my time, thank you.”

“Seems we’re already taking too long.”

“Then hop to it, John Marston.”

Cold on the surface, fond underneath. That seemed to be how they functioned.

Needing no more encouragement, John backed fully from Arthur. Disentangled from his legs and started to undo the buttons on his front. Not to be left behind, Arthur pushed the instant regret over being left to his own devices in favor of undoing his own buttons, too.

Another moment that could’ve been awkward (they were naked plenty around one another, but the purpose changed the meaning quite a bit), but by the devil’s grace, wasn’t.

Tent being small as it was, knees knocked. Arthur caught a stray elbow from John. John caught one back, only it maybe wasn’t so stray. They sniped at each other as if they were just stripping down for a dunk in a lake, all nonsense barbs and barks-- and, just as with a dunk in a lake, it escalated happily and swiftly into a tussle. John tried to wrestle him into a headlock, failed spectacularly thanks to Arthur’s experience and size, and left himself open to Arthur paying him back by rolling him to his back, pinning him with an arm, and pretending to drop a load of spit in his face.

John’s hands scrabbled at his ears, trying to get purchase for a twist, and all the while yelped, “Don’t! Fuck you, don’t you dare!”

“ _Arthur Morgan,_ ” Abigail said, though he heard the laugh in her voice even before he looked over to see her fighting an ear-to-ear grin, “leave him be and get over here.”

“You’re lucky we got a lady present,” Arthur told John, taking his time in getting off the guy. Just as he levered himself all the way off, he feinted going to pin him again. On reflex, John kicked him in the side.

That smarted, but it was worth it for the affectionate exasperation on Abigail’s face and the smug chuckle it inspired in John.

“Don’t see no lady,” John said to his now very naked back. By the sounds of it, he was busying himself with the tin, which -- Arthur both desperately wanted to see and desperately didn’t. “Just a fool big enough to be stuck here with two monkeys.”

“Isn’t that just the truth,” Abigail sighed. “The only lucky is that you two make for some handsome apes.”

Then there was no words, as she caught him around the shoulders and pulled him in again, and Arthur became quite distracted indeed. She ended up on her back this time around, him bent in over her, his legs on either side of her hips. His mouth on hers. Her hand over his, guiding it up to her chest. The thin nightgown really wasn’t much in ways of barriers, especially as it’d slipped far down her shoulder and clung to her like a second skin. He caressed her side, pinched at soft skin -- palmed her, as breath caught and nipples hardened under his hand. 

She coaxed reverence out of the bow in his back. Slid one of her hands down his side to cup where he was soft; kept her grip soft, kind, _patient_ , as he hissed a curse into her neck. 

As his dick hardened, she pressed the heel of her hand against its head, her other hand reaching down to give the base a twist. It sent a thrill up his spine, left him shifting his weight and -- almost daring to drop forward, but not quite. Stopping, at the last second. Had a feeling that she didn’t appreciate boldness as much as one would suspect.

“Quick learner,” she murmured, too fond to be talking to him. “You’re a good one, Arthur.”

A low moan robbed him of his reflex denial, which was just as well. 

“You’ve the devil’s hands,” he told her as she did something with her wrist that made him embarrassingly breathy. Her nails pressed, light and blunt, under the lip of his crown. Her face was right by his, tilted toward him, her bright and blown eyes watching every twitch in his expression. 

“So I’ve been told.”

The tremor came back in his legs, which abruptly felt ill-suited to the job of keeping him up.

He had to be radiating heat. She definitely was, the space between them nothing short of steamed up.

Her legs shifted between his. A little, restless back-and-forth rubbing of her ankles, proving more besides. 

“She likes it gentle.” 

“Don’t presume what I like.” Instantly, she turned her head away from Arthur, her eyes narrowing at their third occupant who-- who had to be near done, didn’t he? Done enough to be commenting on their proceedings. 

Before Arthur got it in him to check, she gave a low, considering hum, her whole body joining he legs in shifting restlessly back-and-forth, and looked back at him. Her tongue swiped over her chapped lips and she admitted, sounding quite amused at herself, “Anyway, he’s right.”

“Good to have guidance,” he said, and thumbed over the perk of her breast.

She shivered. Hooked one ankle over the other, her thighs pressed tight together. 

Meant there was more for him to sit back on, and he did. To which, working with him easy as water flowing down a sleepy creek, she obligingly pressed a leg higher, balancing the new pressure with quicker strokes over his cock.

When he bent his head to kiss her, she opened her mouth in an invitation he eagerly accepted. 

Rhythm came easy. He rocked into her hand and back against her leg while she murmured encouragement into his mouth, all little _yes_ es and _good, Arthur, very good_ s and _big, ain’t you? Can feel it._

He found he liked the tangle of hair in his fingers and so put himself down on his forearm so he could have a hand at the base of her braid, scratching his nails against her scalp. His other hand, she directed him to get under her nightgown - rucking it up on one side to near her collarbones - and keep her occupied. A caress here, a pinch and flick there-- another little rhythm, and they were both kept humming.

He registered John moving about the other side of the tent, but it wasn’t until a hand pressed between his shoulder blades that he bothered drawing away from Abigail. Only enough to look over his shoulder, and thereafter catch a much rougher, near jarring kiss. 

“John,” Abigail said-- and made Arthur hiss and curse again, as fingers that had been so kind and gentle suddenly tightened at the base of his cock. Staving off what his hindbrain was big on demanding happen very soon, though the rest of him was fine with this last forever.

“Sure,” John said, responding to a silent exchange that Arthur didn’t entirely miss. He was in its path, after all, and maybe even its nexus. “Come on, big guy.”

 _Playing nice?_ he wanted to joke, though when the moment passed in a blink and he didn’t, he wasn’t too beat up about it.

Rearranging wasn’t so fun. The journey of Abigail letting go of him only to nudge him back with a hand to chest, her other dragging her nightgown back down-- of John clambering between them and a leg getting stepped on in the process-- of John laying down but then having to get his legs around Arthur’s waist, the two of them too impatient to move smoothly- Arthur, his foot choosing to cramp up at the most inopportune moment from being bent under him-- well, the journey wasn’t great. 

But the destination sure was worth it.

John, on his back, ass in Arthur’s lap. He had one leg up on Arthur’s shoulder and the other folded around his side. Arthur had his hands on his thighs, fingers digging in enough to turn the skin white.

Abigail, her hands fisted in her gown, watching the join of them and looking like a cat that had just realized the canary’s cage was wide open.

“What’re you waiting for,” John groused, his foot digging pointedly into the small of Arthur’s back, hips canted up to press hot skin along Arthur’s length, his own already ruddy against his stomach, “an invitation? Okay, fine. This is your invitation. Fucking take it, Arthur, come _on._ Done waiting. Only getting older.”

“Should’ve known you’d be as mouthy in bed as you are everywhere else,” Arthur growled back-- and didn’t press in, just to spite him a moment longer. As he couldn’t get his eyes off the man and blood pounded through his ears, mouth dry, he distantly wondered who exactly he was hurting more by holding off. 

“I’ve something for that,” Abigail said.

That got John’s attention off Arthur, his head tipping back to better watch Abigail as she swung her leg over him and settled almost atop his head, lifting her skirt until her sex was all on display.

John made a noise, half acquisiance, half interest, all impatience. His arms lifted and his hands scrabbled at her sides, wrapping around her waist. 

In a move he’d later swear she had to practice _somewhere,_ Abigail caught Arthur’s eye. They had a silent little exchange that gave Arthur more permission than he needed. 

Then he lined himself up with John’s slicked hole and pushed in; at the same time, Abigail rose and sunk forward, seating herself right on John’s face.

A guttural noise keened its way out of John’s throat, muffled by Abigail, as Arthur edged back until just his tip pressed against John’s ass, thinking it too tight to be comfortable. But then he remembered she’d said he liked, and the leg over his shoulder tightened too, forcing him to rock forward, and in one measured drag forward, he moved until he was seated to the hilt.

Under him, John wouldn’t quit _Shifting_ : little twists of his hips, tiny gyrations and undulations. His stomach muscles were in a constant state of flex, and - as his leg slipped off Arthur’s shoulder and fell to his waist, his thighs were all but a clamp around him. Egging him on without word.

But, whenever he shifted, it felt like a vice around his cock. Pleasant, sure, in the way being on the edge of pain could be. He moved in increments, hoping for the pressure to loosen just a bit, for both their sakes.

Abigail was flushed head to toe, her eyes half-lidded and expression dazed. John’s hands were on her hips, his fingers as restless there as the rest of him. Unlike Arthur, she seemed plenty fine with getting a move on, as she rocked against his face in time with what wet noises Arthur heard him making. 

No more than a handful of seconds (-- in fact, much longer --) passed before Abigail’s legs tensed and she lifted herself a little. Under her, a resurfaced John took gulping breaths, his face redder than any of theirs. 

Yet, the first thing he said was, “Fuck you, Morgan, _fuck_ you. Move. _Move_ , damn you, you stupid, ugly, old--”

Arthur decided he really didn’t need to hear the rest. He gripped Marston’s hips, collected his legs under him, lifted him to a better angle, pulled back and snapped forward. 

Eyes squeezing shut, John’s protests dissolved into a pleased, shuddering groan. The vice loosened as Arthur thrust again, and again; what had been borderline painful became nothing short of incredible. _Tight_ , still, slicked and smelling of grease, but gorgeously so. 

Speed wasn’t too difficult to gain after that. John’s legs loosened, too, curling instinctively up as Arthur found a demanding pace that seemed to suit him.

“No way to talk to your bedmate, John,” Abigail chided, though before John could do more than take a breath for a reply, she lowered herself back onto him. Slips of his tongue could be seen, his chin at a jutting angle under her as he licked her through. 

Through her own gasps, strands of her hair sticking to her sweat-damp forehead, she looked to Arthur - who had been looking at John’s cock and remembering that reach-arounds were only fair - and directed, “Don’t touch him any. Not until we’re done. Not ‘til you can get him begging.”

“You’re a cruel one,” Arthur noted, but followed the advice all the same. Put his hand back on John’s hip. 

“Maybe to some,” she allowed, “when they deserve it.”

John tapped his hand on her hip, and she lifted again. Just long enough for him to take a few gasps of air -- his face a mess with slick, eyes still shut --, because as he got enough breath to say, “I _heard_ you--,” down she again went.

“Harder,” she told Arthur, “I mean it. Think you can trust me on what he likes.”

That was true. Arthur caught John’s ankles in one hand, shifting his legs around until he could press them forward, get John’s ass higher. That way he could nearly kneel and fuck-- gave him better leverage, a harsher drive. Eliza had liked it rough, too. Mary said she did, but didn’t, not really. Something about the look of him attracted folk like that or gave folk the idea they wanted to try, he supposed. 

Not that he minded, exactly. As far as preferences went, he had his own, and they largely revolved around making his partners look at him like he’d wrecked their world and then pulled them out of the mire. That kind of adoration was heedy, no matter how momentary it lasted.

At last, John stopped his squirming. Couldn’t do much except take it, Arthur figured. As he was, on his back, legs in the air like some common whore, his woman doing her best to suffocate him, he didn’t have too many options for anything but taking what they had to give. 

Not having to think for himself was the point, he thought, and understood that, too. 

The first to break was Abigail -- she swayed forward, then curled over John, her breathing shortened into hitching pants, her hands on her own breasts. John had worked one hand between them, his fingers undoubtedly curled in her or spreading her, his tongue a broad stroke against her clit. Finally, a decent use for his mouth. Arthur couldn’t see, but he could guess; faintly, he was impressed Abigail held out long as she had.

Her pleasure came in waves. It spasmed along her back and stomach and rolled from her in a stuttered, dragged-out moan. 

“Shit,” she said, and repeated, and, “John,” too, until her shuddering passed and she said, “Stop, stop,” as she swiftly moved off him, all but spilling to the side. Sensitive. Trying to catch her breath.

Having slowed himself to stave off the inevitable as well as better watch the show (and not _interrupt_ the show), Arthur stilled completely when she got off.

John took a moment, too. Breathing hard. Wiped his face, if only to crack open his eyes. Focused first on Abigail, a touch of smugness in his flushed face; then looked over to Arthur, who’d, once again, stopped moving.

Arthur noted that John looked rock hard, his untouched cock an angry-looking red, leaking at the tip.

John opened his mouth to make, undoubtedly, a demand.

Arthur didn’t let him.

“Get on your knees.”

For once in his unexpectedly long life, John Marston didn’t complain.

Facing away from Arthur, he got on his knees. He went when Arthur put a hand on his shoulder and pushed to make him bend. He put his hands on the ground. Arthur pushed harder, and he went down to his elbows.

“Fuck,” he said, the single word packed full.

“That’s the idea,” Arthur assured him.

John found enough breath to chuckle, his head dropping to put his forehead against the crinkled and ruined blankets. 

The laugh dissolved into a low groan as Arthur lined himself again and pushed in, _slow_ , though it were practically a smooth glide. 

“Faster,” he said, perhaps in a show of egotism. “Harder. Know you’ve got more than that.”

That, Arthur obliged.

Thankful for how much time he spent riding around the countryside and how used to being stuck in one position his legs thus were, Arthur set up a brutal pace. Leaned forward just enough to get a fistful hair, which he pulled whenever John seemed to need reminding that they weren’t done. Soon enough, John had all but collapsed forward into his folded arms, his back a sharp bend as Arthur held his ass up. Into the blankets he had his face shoved in, he kept up a soft litany of swears and half-formed threats against Arthur. His hands clenched around the sheets, fingers spasming. 

When he let go to touch himself, Arthur smacked his hand away.

John cursed him louder then. His knees kept slipping to the sides, looking to give out -- Arthur pulled him up by the hips whenever he did, snarling at him to _keep up._

Sooner than later, John again tried to touch himself.

And again, Arthur smacked his hand away. Added a swat to his side, too; made John jerk to the side and trade his cussing for threats.

“I need to,” he’d say, the words garbled in his mouth, his whole body a ragdoll pushed around by Arthur’s thrusts. “Arthur. You, you, _bastard._ Son of a _bitch_. I’ll-- gut you. _Let_ me.”

“No,” he growled back, and once more yanked up on his hips, harsh, to keep John’s legs under him. Let go of his hair to get a better grip there. Gave him another swat on his side, open-palmed.

“ _Arthur_.” Less a name, more a sob. Close, Arthur thought. He was very close. “Can’t--” 

Bit his lip to keep that one in. 

Arthur pushed hair out of his face, then leaned forward. Put himself chest-to-back, his hips slowing to mean, measured rolls. “Can’t what?” 

John turned his head to crack an eye open. Its pupil was blown wide, and it struggled hard to focus on him. “Fuck. You.”

“Huh,” Arthur said, “not what I was hoping to hear.”

He leaned back and resumed his pace. John didn’t keep his sob in then, though he buried his face back into the blankets and clawed uselessly at the ground. If he thought he wanted to get away, he was fooling himself. 

(It definitely was heading toward pain for Arthur, holding it in so long. But, hell-- John had always brought out the petty in him.)

“And you said I was cruel.”

Having little breath for more, Arthur huffed out a laugh.

“Abigail.” John turned his head again, his eyes seeking out his woman. She raised an eyebrow from where she’d seated herself, pretty as you please, by their sides. “Please. Abigail, come on, _please._ ”

“Sounds like he wants it,” she said, looking over him to Arthur.

“He’s asking the wrong person.”

“Suppose so.”

John cursed them both. 

Arthur pulled back and, with a wet sound, out. John practically howled.

Good thing he had muscle on the guy, as John was no help in flipping himself over. His legs were like putty. Made them easy to arrange around Arthur’s waist as he pulled him onto his lap. Harder was getting John to sit up straight-- eventually, Arthur compromised by letting him slouch against his chest and hide his face in the crook of his neck, his arms loose over his shoulders. He made a low, hurting noise as Arthur all but lifted him and seated him back on his cock. Arthur, for his part, smothered his hiss in his throat and gave into a pleased hum. 

“Want to see your face,” Arthur murmured into his head, his cheek pressed against his lanky hair. He had his arms around John’s waist, one supporting his back to keep him from falling. Slowly, though, he moved the other to rest atop John’s thigh, his nails scratching lightly at the smooth skin there.

For the second time in his life, John lifted his head without complaint. 

His eyes really were blown wide as dinner plates. His whole self was sweat-soaked, but his face had it worse, with streaks of Abigail’s slick left tangled in his hair and stuck to his cheek. His lips were bitten and bruised, by himself as much as them. He looked properly fucked-out. Ruined. 

He looked gorgeous.

“There you are.”

Arthur gave him another pleased hum, patting him twice on the back. Kissed him, a chaste press against his forehead, his hand raising to brush some of his hair out of his face and tuck it behind his ear before cupping the back of his head. John swayed toward him like Arthur was the only thing that made any sense, gaze hazy.

Dipped the hand on John's thigh to his cock. John’s breath hitched, hopeful. 

Rubbed a thumb through the precum, then over the slit at the head. Pushed a little into it. Thought about what he himself liked more than the last two times he’d done something like this, and tightened his grip on the shaft. 

“Yes,” spilled from John. His head lolled forward, back onto Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur didn’t begrudge him that. “Yes, yes, yes, Arthur, shit, _yes._ ”

“Been good,” he told him, voice a husk and whisper, nosing down until he had lips at his ear and his cheek pressed to smooth cheek, “you’re so good. I've got you. Don't you worry.”

Some gentle words and eight hard pulls was all John needed, apparently, as he choked out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob and full-body shivered, cock jerking in Arthur’s hand as he came. Arthur milked him through it, gentling his touch only toward the end. If there was wet on his shoulder that had to be tears, well, he paid them both the respect of not commenting on it.

It made John clench something awful around Arthur, which officially pushed the pleasure wholly into pain. Arthur grit his teeth and bore the sensitivity. As John came down from his high, Arthur tipped him to the ground. Kept himself in, lest he talk himself out of it before he got what they’d freely offered.

John looked up at him like he was the last good breath of air he’d ever have. Wrapped his arms back over Arthur’s shoulder and told him in a sleepy, satiated voice, to get on with it.

Didn’t take much after that. Came while pressed as far into John’s space as he could get, his tongue licking through John’s lax, tang-tasting mouth, his legs loose on his hips and his hands buried in his hair. John told him to stay still while he worked through it, still buried in deep, and he didn’t much have the mind, heart or will to argue.

After, the night grew soft and quiet. They straightened up and cleaned off the blankets best they could. A dampness clung nonetheless by the time they gave up and settled in, the tent reeking of sweaty bodies. It weren’t any worse than most places they bedded down, though, and any disgust they might’ve had dissolved under their bemusement at the situation as a whole.

They insisted Arthur get in the middle of them, to which Arthur insisted John be in the middle, of which John paused and reconsidered and took that offer without further protest from anybody. John stuck his head under Arthur's chin and curled tight to his front; Abigail, at his back, had a leg over his and her arm stretched over to brush Arthur's shoulder. Arthur had his arms and heart full, fit to burst. By the time they settled down, they pressed together like a bunch of touch-starved dogs, heedless of whose leg went where and whose arm crossed whose. Ultimately, it was such a tangle, it didn’t matter.

Nightmares were a common problem for anybody that had lived a life such as theirs. Yet, they suffered none that night, their shared company meaning they slept soundly as an innocent.

‘Course, the positioning _did_ matter after Arthur got enough sleep for his body to feel entitled to demand he wake and head out to take a piss. 

Outside, a far-off wolf howled to its brethen. As the horses paid it no mind, neither did Arthur, though he imagined he’d like to get out and back in before it and its friends came sniffing around. Tried his best though he did, he didn’t manage to untangle himself without waking John. He cracked open his eye as Arthur stood, stooped in the low tent, and grumbled a question that wasn’t words. 

Arthur got it, all the same.

“Nature calls,” he told him, and then, “I’ll be back.”

Apparently, a good lay and warm place to sleep made him pliant, as he only hummed and closed his eye again. 

By the time Arthur stepped out of the tent - clad in his half-buttoned nightwear and a coat he’d snagged from the valuables pile that they’d kept inside the tent (not letting himself look too long at the damnable, unremarkable tin) -, John nuzzled even closer to Abigail and dozed back off.

A bit of him was arrested by the two of them, whole and hale, happy and sated and safe. That part grew as he recognized his own place in it, even if he were actually an interloper. Briefly, he imagined telling them what he knew. Warning them off the ferry, and off Dutch, should things go south. Telling them to take Charles and Tilly and whoever else would listen and _get out._

But it weren't his place. Not really. And more importantly, it weren't their place. Weren't their reality. They'd think him crazy at best, and ridiculous at worst, and dig themselves in even deeper when it all did start to fall apart (inevitable though it was, through Dutch or Pinkertons or the American civilization itself).

He let drop the tent flaps behind him, and turned to make sure they were closed enough to keep the heat in. The early morning air was sharp in its chill, heavy as it was with fog and dew. 

On an exhale, his breath was a cloud before his face. An itch started in his chest, but it was no worse than what happened when one stepped from a warm place to a cold place. 

Intent on finding a tree and getting back to the warm place as soon as possible, he turned around--- and froze.

They’d set up camp in the forested foothills of Mount Shawn. The pines were tall and defiantly green, the aspen between them like white-barked streaks. 

In all the trees perched big, black birds, their eyes red as burning coal.

The tree branches sagged under their collective weight. A few in the mass shifted where they sat; the effect was that of a tide rippling through the flock. All pinned him with their attention, though he couldn’t possibly take them all in at once. 

They were spots of bottomless black in an otherwise colorful world. If they took to the skies, he was sure they’d block out any hint of kind blue.

“Hello, dearie.”

He blinked once at the birds before realizing that, no, that hadn’t come from them. It instead came from a hunched-over, shriveled hag of a grey-skinned woman from where sat on the log John and Abigail had occupied not so long ago. In front of her, the fire they had put out crackled and spat with a black flame, ash and white smoke raising in a steady swirl to the skies. Over it, she held a dented mug in one gnarled hand, a thick, black liquid bubbling within.

To her left, docile as the most domesticated dogs, laid three massive timber wolves. All with dark pelts, and all with red eyes.

To her right, where the horses should’ve been, was emptiness. He wasn’t sure if they’d ran off, been eaten, or if - somehow - he and she and her beasts were the only ones left in the world. 

She gave Arthur a smile that was more gums than teeth, her eyes squinting closed under her shifting wrinkles.

“You’ve been quite naughty,” she chided him. “My lovelies told me all about what you’ve been up to. Changing fate. Making amends. You’ve many disputes with fate, don’t you?”

He--

He didn’t know what to say.

He knew he didn’t want to lead the woman or her animals into the tent. He knew his borrowed time was up. He knew, without knowing, that what he said probably didn’t matter.

He knew he didn’t want to go easy as all that.

(He also wished he’d been able to grab some pants on his way out.)

“Fate hasn’t been too kind to me and mine,” he finally said.

She cackled, a harsh, grating sound. “Oh, that’s what everybody thinks. Please, boy, take a seat.”

Gesturing with her free hand to the seat he’d taken the night before - a simple crate, found who-knew-where - she gave him another toothless smile. 

He sat.

“You like it here,” she observed with a lewd tilt to her voice, glancing between him and the tent. Her bushy eyebrows waggled.

He didn’t bother hiding his grimace. “Not much to not like. Not sick. Not dying. Family’s all here.”

Her smile vanished. She pulled her mug off the supernatural fire, clutching it to her chest despite the scorching red of the metal. 

“It’s not yours to have,” she spat. “ _Yours_ are sick. Are dying. Are gone.”

“Mostly,” she corrected herself with some bemusement before he could reply, snapping out of her disgust as quickly as she’d fallen into it. “Some are still there. Some have a while yet. Or have you forgotten?”

“Didn’t forget,” he bit back, defensive.

She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper and her eyes so falsely sympathetic he had the abrupt urge to toss her mug’s contents into her ashy face. 

“Seems like you _have._ ”

“Haven’t,” he re-asserted, though doubt crept in. Snaked through the ribs in his chest. Settled its claws around his heart, innumerable pin-pricks against the soft flesh.

“Oh. Is that so.” She sat back, blinking innocently at him. “Then you won’t mind going back to where you belong.”

The biggest of the wolves lifted its head, ears pricked and eyes set toward its master. In the trees, the birds stopped their shifting. 

The world held its breath.

So, too, did Arthur.

The witch took this in, before shaking her head. “You see. You no longer _care._ You think, _not my problem! I have a new family now._ ”

“I don’t,” he breathed, his voice choked. 

Ignoring his response, she threw her hands out, gesturing in grandiosity to her beasts and her trapped audience of one. “Same faces, easier lives! What is there to mourn?”

“Do they even know I’m gone?”

“Not yet.” Arms dropping back to her lap, she went to take a sip from her mug-- and stopped, frowned at it, and put it back to her lap. Looked back up to him. “But they will. I can only stop time for so long, dearie.”

Cotton filled his mind and mouth. He gripped his hands together, pressing his thumb tight to over his calloused knuckles. 

“Not that I’m stopping it for you,” she clarified with a sniff. “My friends get testy when my, hmm, _products_ get misplaced. 

“As one such product did when you stole a sip while I was out. Naughty! It was not for you!” She wagged her finger at him, though she didn’t look or sound so angry. “But, you see, that is why I must be setting things right before they notice. Currently, _this_ world’s you is in _your_ you. Could let him take a spin at your life as you’ve had a spin with his.”

“He’s more of a piece of work than even I am. And that’s saying something.”

She shrugged. She didn’t care.

For some reason, he wanted her to. Or, failing that, to at least _know_. 

“I heard all about him. Saw the effect he left on those who’d cared about him. He was ungrateful. And mean, through-and-through. And--”

“You could keep being him.” She yawned, not covering her mouth. Within, Arthur thought he saw a maggot squirm where a tooth should’ve been. He looked away quickly after that. “Be grateful, and… whatever else you said.”

He could?

He _could._

Mouth opening, he drew a deep breath-- 

And thought of Sadie.

Thought of not the John and Abigail in the tent, but them back at the life he’d left. Thought of Jack, young and scared. Of Micah, and how Jack’s dog had conveniently gone missing once Micah had decided it was too loud. Of Dutch, playing chess with himself and giving lectures to caverns empty of all but the remnants of mankind’s base nature.

Of the girls, of Charles, depending on him to see them through, and thought even of those they’d all lost. 

Slow, he blew out his breath.

“Alright,” he said, and felt the claws around his heart recede. Instead came a pressure, accompanied by a hitch in his lungs. Threatening, _looming_ , and painfully inevitable. “Alright. Fine. I’ll go back.” 

The wolf put its head down, its body heaving a great sigh.

Around them, the birds began their shifting again. A few even clacked their beaks or croaked a note. He couldn’t shake the feeling they were gossiping about his choice, but it wasn’t as if he could tell them to shove it.

“Wonderful!” She clapped her hand against her mug, and stood. Hobbling over to him, she handed him the mug. “Here you are, dearie. One more taste, and off we’ll pop.”

With both hands, he took the mug. It sat, lukewarm and awful and smelling just as strangely compelling as the first time.

He looked down at it, wetting his lips as he mulled on it. 

Better to get it over with, he thought. But--

He looked up to her, needing to know this, at least: “Can I leave them a note? I told him I'd be back.”

“Who?” She stared. Then shook her head and waved her hands, clicking her tongue. “Oh. No. Can’t leave evidence, my dear. My friends are very nosy.”

As bad as she was, then.

Still.

“Nothing?” They’d wake up to his more-than-usual-asshole self, who wouldn’t even remember what had happened? “Wouldn’t that be evidence in itself?”

“ _Yes,_ obviously so. That’s why the you that should be here will remember everything you did. If he isn’t bright enough to realize he’d been possessed by his parallel self, he may be confused as to what he was thinking. But there’s no turning back time, hun.”

Ignoring her muttering of _well, not usually, unless you’re that cheating rat Francis Sinclair,_ he looked to the tent one last time. It wasn’t anything remarkable. It was one he himself had used before, in fact. 

But it’d never been about the location or the goods.

He just hoped his memory would stay crisp and clear until the end. What had happened here-- finally being a part of those silent exchanges that could tell a whole story-- really, what happened over the last month and some, in this world that wasn’t his, well-- he wouldn’t mind if it were the last things he saw before he passed. He’d been staring down the barrel for while now. It hadn't taken a nun to get it through his head that he was on his way out, but that he was due for Hell's gates had reminded him of all those who weren't, and shown him how they needed him to step it up.

Memories couldn’t compare to the tangible thing, but life wasn't fair and kind.

And in the cruel and unjust world, he had people left worth helping.

“Hope this bastard figures out how good he’s got it before he loses it.”

With that, he shot back the mug’s contents.

It went down as poorly as the first time, tasting of nothing and everything disgusting all at once.

When his vision swirled and blackened and he fell, he didn’t even feel himself reach the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see you next time, sad cowboy...
> 
> (hey, he had a nice vacation, right?? right? -- alternatively: his TB is magically cured & he goes on to live out this exact camping trip _again_ , only on a ranch. yep. yeppers. it's perfect.)
> 
> anyway, thank you very much for reading and reviewing! the comments have meant a lot. :D feedback inspires me to write more rdr2 soon, even if this au is closed. also it's just fun to talk to other folk who are as into these fools as I am.
> 
> follow me on [tumblr](https://unkingly.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/exkingly) for more fandom shenanigans.


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